I See Fire
by Leman of the Russ
Summary: Dylan, an ex-Circle mage now Grey Warden, is forced to tackle both the betrayal of Teryn Loghain and the Blight looming on the horizon with nothing but his winning personality, the clothes on his back and his ragtag group of misfits. Will he save Fereldan from the growing threat, or will he fall in disgrace? And why can he hear the voices of those long dead? Includes all Origins.
1. Prologue- To Observe the Unseen

**So, here begins my re-take of a Dragon Age fanfic. This took a freaking age (no pun intended) to write. Quick shout-out to Kamic Acumen for generously agreeing to beta this, 'cause you're awesome like that. Anyway, reviews are always welcome, flames maybe but anything I deem to be excessive WILL be removed. Anywho, now my mini-rant is over, ONWARD!**

* * *

Dylan swore as, once again, the fireball he'd summoned imploded in his hand, mildly burning the flesh of his palm. He hissed as he took in the small blackened circle on his hand, no larger than a silver coin. Third time today he grumbled in his head, despairing at his lack of success. Of all the times...

Placing three thin tomes under his left arm and holding Irving's personal journal in the other hand, he walked down the hall towards the First Enchanter's study, which also doubled as his main practise chamber. He had been in the Circle since he was four, after nearly burning down the entirety of one of Kirkwall's most profitable warehouse districts in a fit of rage after the guild master had thrown his father into the harbour to die for simply being Tevinter-born and not a native Marcher.

His mother had been horrified, quickly bundling up their meagre belongings and fleeing the city. But the Templars had caught them almost as soon as they had left the city walls. He had knocked four of them to the floor before being subdued, by his own mother no less! They had dragged him to the Gallows, and from there Fereldan's Circle Tower, kicking and screaming until the Enchanters cast a sleep spell on him. Afterward he had been perpetually angry, snapping at even the smallest provocation and flickered unpredictably between unstoppable rage and long, dark sessions of brooding.

That all changed when the First Enchanter took the young mage under his wing and helped cool his burning rage. Where others sneered and spat at him, Irving praised and encouraged. Where others were cruel and demeaning, Irving was kind and gentle. He didn't bat an eye when he started bringing his plush dragon- the only reminder he had of home- to some of his classes. Irving soon replaced the man in the Denerim harbour as his father-figure, quickly acting more as a father than a teacher.

Over time, Dylan managed to find other friends, eventually shedding the dark air of perpetual danger he had wrapped around himself for so many , the other inhabitants warmed up to him. Maybe they saw him as a scared, lost soul in need of sympathy when they took him into their fold. The senior mages taught him control, soothed the aches of his old life, and begun the process of integrating him into Circle life.

Eventually Neria, a raven-haired elf girl with eyes like emeralds and apprentice to Wynne, had forced her way into his life. She had first appeared when they had been partnered in a simple control exercise: She would raise a shield whilst he attempted to break it. Their first attempts had gone as well as could be expected from twelve year-old mages just grasping their true potential; Dylan's shield couldn't even last a good minute before collapsing, and Neria couldn't even tickle it with any of her spells. When they swapped roles the results were staggering. Neria's shield was almost unbreakable, not even Uldred could make a dent in it (he suggested Irving tried, but both stopped when Dylan glared at them with his gold-brown eyes). It was Dylan, however, that drew the majority of the attention. He wielded fire as if born to it, his flames dancing through the air like fish in a lake.

During their later sessions they stayed such for well over an hour, Dylan bombarding his friend's shield with fire, ice and lightning whilst she remained unmoved, an immoveable object against Dylan's unstoppable force. Soon after, they were thick as thieves amidst their peers, they skill bordering on the incredible. But as they grew, their tastes in magical practise began to divide.

Neria wanted to focus of healing and defensive spells, only attacking when absolutely necessary. Dylan, on the other hand, wanted to capitalise on his affinity for fire, to expand his knowledge on the destructive arts of primal magic, as well as delving deep into the mysteries of the Fade and spells of Spirit therein. The only thing they shared was a passion for herbalism, and spent many hours poring over old tomes and brewing strange concoctions in whatever laboratory happened to be free.

The amount of times they had emerged after an explosion had rocked three floors of the tower; their faces blackened by the charred remains of their latest experiment were innumerable, whilst the Templars and older apprentices laughed at the matching grins they sported after Greagoir had stormed off with smoke figuratively- and sometime literally- spewing from his ears.

But five years after the two had had their first lesson together, Jowan and Anders were drawn into their little fold, and together they became known as the 'Terrors of the Tower', playing pranks on anyone and everyone. Their preferred targets were the Templars who didn't stay true to their oaths, and abused the system that the Chantry had put in place to protect the mages. They made life for those few as hard and degrading as possible, all whilst never getting caught.

Unfortunately for them, these Templars were more cunning than they had anticipated, and had caught wind of their reputation. And soon, the tables had turned completely, forcing Anders to escape yet again, Jowan to seek solace in the chapel, and for Dylan and Neria to glance over their shoulders every second of the day. It was during one of these days, three years ago, that Neria ran into Cullen, a new recruit from Denerim. It was also on the same day that Dylan nearly turned the tower into Fereldan's largest matchstick.

He remembered it as if it were yesterday:

* * *

_Dylan was walking quite calmly towards the library, already planning the next set of tests he wanted to run on the batch of fire crystals he'd procured from the stockroom. He hummed as he walked, the tune all but forgotten but the melody still safe in his mind. He nodded to some of the kinder Templars as he passed, smiling as they nodded back._ Always good to remember they're not all mage-hating simpletons_ he thought as he continued on his way, descending the stairs to the second floor._

_Soon, however, his guard began to rise as he saw an abnormal number of apprentices running about in seemingly a mad panic. He grabbed one by the shoulder. _

_"What's happening?" he asked, his face a mask of polite inquiry. The mage- no older than thirteen- looked like he had come face-to-face with a rage demon._

_"There's muffled screaming coming from one of the quarters" he explained, his tone quick and shaky whilst pointing down the east corridor, his eyes were wild and unruly._

_Dylan's mental barriers immediately slammed into place, his mind going from 'something's strange' to 'someone's in danger' in less time than it took to blink._

_As he turned to go down the corridor, the mage called out "It happened right after some Templars dragged some elf girl in there and ordered us out!"_

_He stopped, his blood turning to ice in his veins. "This elf girl" he said, very slowly so as to make sure his words were not garbled in his fear, "did she have black hair and green eyes?" The apprentice nodded, and Dylan's heart froze in his chest. Before anyone could react he was sprinting towards the source of the screams- which he could now clearly hear._

Oh Neria_ he lamented _you had to choose today to go walkabout didn't you?_ He barrelled through a large horde of people, his pace never slowing, before he arrived at a wooden door behind which the shrill screams and repeated cries of "No!" and "Let go!" came from._

_Without thinking, Dylan kicked the door open-magic flared and easily compensated for his lack of body strength- hoping to stop whatever actions the Templars had planned before they could take place. He was too late. There, tied to the posts of a bed Neria lay, her robes in tatters and blood seeping from multiple wounds, tears streaming down her elegant face. And, standing around her were six Templars, each in a different state of undress._

_Some were shirtless, others lacking in trousers, whilst the boldest were completely bare._

_Behind him, he heard the slight clank of armour, and a strangled gasp of surprise, but that was all secondary. What mattered right now was Neria's bloodied body, strapped to a bed by the belts of her attackers. The edges of his vision began to shimmer, like how a heat haze affects the surrounding air._

_"Well well" one of the Templars, now recognisable as Ser Bryant Oswick, sneered. He had gained a reputation for cruelty and sadism amongst the Circle, and seemed to enjoy tormenting anyone he deemed beneath him. He stood, remarkably calmly for a man naked before his fellows "if it isn't the Terror of the Tower himself. Come to join your little friend here?"_

_The others laughed cruelly at his questions- sycophants!- and Dylan's hands clenched tightly into fists, the shimmering now completely encompassing his vision, and he swore he heard a dull roar in the back of his mind, like that of a large enraged beast._

_Then another voice spoke, a voice no one expected to hear._

_"Dear Maker, are you idiots mad!" the colossal boom of Cullen's voice startled everyone; never had they heard such fury from the soft-spoken recruit. He stood, holding his sword in a death-grip, his pupils so large they dominated his eyes, the blue completely obscured by the black._

_Bryant simply smirked, before gesturing at Neria's bruised form, saying "Jealous Cullen? You could join in you know. No one's stopping you. In fact I was planning on taking the knife-ear whore myself, but now you're here I'll safe a bit, just for you."_

_Dylan's teeth ground against each other with a terrible creak, and his body thrummed with barely-restrained emotion. Some people see red when their rage becomes unbearable, others see black._

_Dylan only saw fire._

_He felt heat blossom within his chest, and power surge through his veins. With a bellow of rage he thrust his arm outwards, creating a wave of fire that crashed into the group, sending them tumbling to the floor. Cullen quickly cut Neria free of her bonds and carried her bridal style out of the room._

_But Dylan's focus was centred purely on the figures before him. Sprawled on the ground, moaning in pain or hissing as fire licked at their skin. Dylan distantly wondered if he'd blacked out at any point- the bastards seemed to have turned into terrified wrecks absurdly fast- but then his eyes on Bryant and logic gave way to fire again._

_With a wave of his hand he summoned another wall of flame, sending it twisting and spinning around him, creating a vortex of fire with him at the centre._

_Bryant wouldn't be getting past him to the door._

_The Templars who weren't knocked down by the first blast paled in terror as he walked towards them, the vortex following him across the room like a second shadow; a deadly, fiery, crackling thing. Those lucky enough to be knocked behind him fled out the door, heedless to their state of undress, the fear all too present in their eyes. Those who remained were either screaming as they were burnt alive or trying to escape the raging inferno and a similarly grisly fate._

_Bryant was quivering on the floor, somehow inside the flaming column without being singed, his eyes fixed on the wild mage before him. The Templar looked as if he was seeing someone or something had hadn't laid eyes on before. Dylan smirked at the sight, knowing he must have become quite the figure. His hair whipped around him in the flaming wind, the tails of his robes flapping like wings behind him. It was strange that Bryant was staring at his face instead of any of that._

_A reflection of his face in the glass of a picture frame told him why. It was his eyes. They were no longer the golden brown everyone knew; now they were a horrifying amalgamation of gold, black and deep crimson, reflecting the light of the flames like two lanterns embedded in his skull._

_"**Scared, Bryant?**" he mocked, his voice having dropped several octaves; sounding powerful, otherworldly, nothing more a low draconic rumble. He would have relished this new sound if he wasn't so overcome by rage. Dylan advanced, dragging the now shaking Bryant into the air with a telekinetic grip around his throat. He suspended the grovelling Templar just before the writhing wall of flame, seeming to respond to his rage._

_"Pl-please" Bryant coughed, spluttering as his air supply was cut, grappling desperately at the intangible clamp around his neck "have m-m-mercy"_

_The laugh that answered him was nothing short of demonic, a chilling sound that slithered over his skin like an overly large snake._

_"**Sorry**" came the scathing reply, Dylan's eyes hardening as his grip tightened "all out of mercy."_

_He then began chanting in Ancient Tevene, the dead language of old Tevinter and her Old Gods, the tone wavering between that of a man pronouncing final judgement, and the snarl of something not quite human. But behind him, the thunder of a dozen steel boots could be heard, undoubtedly the Templars had caught word of what had happened and had decided to intervene. '_I'd like to see them try_' he sneered within the confines of his mind, his grip unconsciously tightening around Bryant's throat as he continued, the flames beginning to roil and writhe around them even harder._

_"Dylan!" Ah, the thunderous voice of the Knight-Commander. No day was complete without it._

_He glanced over his shoulder; never breaking his chant, to see Greagor, Irving and half a dozen Templars standing in the doorway, the recruits looking halfway between awe and sheer, bowel-clenching terror at the flames that billowed out around them and out into the hallway. Greagoir was, understandably, seething, his sword partway out of its sheath on his back, his eyes locked on the tear-stained face of Bryant. It was Irving, however, that seemed to affect him the most, without actually doing anything._

_His eyes, old and wise, cut through his anger like sunlight cuts through mist. Dylan felt the fire wither and die; the flaming wall dropping as he fell to his knees, suddenly exhausted. A pair of arms caught him before he buried his nose in the rugs, nearly fainting from exhaustion. He made out the blurred figure of Irving, saying something he could not hear, his hearing having apparently given up any hope of returning in the near future._

_The only clear thing he saw, however; was the sight of Bryant rising from his prone spot on the floor, with a large serrated knife in his hand, a snarl of humiliated outrage contorting his face._

_"**NO!**" the cry tore itself from his lips before his mind could register the sound, his hand shooting forward, seemingly of its own accord, casting a bolt of crimson energy. It collided solidly with Bryant's head, sending it snapping backwards with a sickening crack. The Templar fell, boneless, to the stone floor, and didn't move. Dylan suddenly lurched to his feet, the adrenaline still flooding his veins._

_Both Templar and mage alike attempted to restrain him, and he struggled mightily against them. But ultimately, his series of stunts had worn him down so far that he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open. The last thing he remembered before the darkness claimed him was seeing Neria standing in the doorway, her green elven eyes wide as dinner platters and her face white as a sheet._

_His last thought was laced with shock and underlying terror: She had seen everything._

_And in the end, the consequences weren't quite what he'd expected._

* * *

Dylan shook his head to clear the unpleasant memories, bringing his focus back to the here and now. He was just outside Irving's office, with his hand braced against the wall, his books spread across the floor. He sighed and began gathering up the dropped tomes.

"Wow" a melodious voice floated down the hall, tickling his eardrums "and here I thought you couldn't get any clumsier." He looked up to see Neria casually walking down the corridor, the hem of her sapphire robes swishing around her ankles like water lapping at her legs. It seemed to hug her figure without being too unseemly, and seemed to amplify her existing charm.

He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the sight of her carefree grin, her eyes two sparkling emeralds. T

hen she saw the shadow lurking in his eyes, the lack of the usual spark that burned there, and her smile dropped.

"What did you see?" she said softly, using their traditional phrase they'd developed so others would know when he was close to losing control. He had an array of response words, each one signalling a different state of mind. He simply smiled at her, trying to disarm her and drive her off topic. Instead of distracting her like he had intended, her gaze sharpened and hardened, becoming like silverite daggers.

"What. Did. You. See?" she reiterated, enforcing each word by poking him hard in the chest. He swatted the offending finger aside, before latching onto her wrist to halt her assault.

"The beginning" he deadpanned, his voice bland and apathetic. Neria's anger melted instantly, being replaced by soft sorrow. She didn't say anything, simply wrapped her arms around his ribs and hugged him, tears slowly gathering in her eyes. Dylan looked down, his heart almost tearing itself in two at the sight of Neria in tears. He gathered her in his arms, rubbing small comforting circles in the small of her back whilst whispering soothing words into her hair.

If there was one thing that could be said about Dylan Amell, he was insanely protective of his friends.

"Ah, there you are" Dylan looked up as Irving and Wynne rounded the corner, Neria shifting slightly in his arms. Wynne gave them a motherly smile before motioning Neria to follow her. The she-elf slipped out of Dylan's grasp and scurried after the older Enchanter, turning back only to wave goodbye before disappearing behind the wall.

Dylan sighed, gathered up his books and accompanied Irving into his office. The vast room was as much a home as the vast halls he remembered from his family's estate in Kirkwall. He set the tomes down on a nearby shelf before proceeding to Irving's desk, taking his usual seat opposite the First Enchanter.

Irving sifted through the chest in the corner, searching for Maker knew what- it was nearly impossible to tell what went on in that man's head- before emerging triumphant with five scrolls clasped in his gnarled hands.

"Ah, here we are" he said, his time-worn voice amazingly cheerful, his wizened frame moving with such ease to bely his true age. He spread one of the scrolls across his desk before passing another to Dylan's waiting hands. "This is for you; I trust you'll know what to do with it."

Dylan nodded before unrolling it, studying the words for a few moments before rising form his chair. He turned to leave, and had almost reached the door when Irving called "Oh Dylan?" He glanced over his shoulder as Irving continues, "I've set your Harrowing for two days' time, right after Neria's." The older mage looked up into his protégé's eyes, a sly smile on his lips. "Try not to demolish the chamber whilst you're up there? I think I've endured as much of Greagoir's ranting as an old man can stand."

Chuckling at his mentor's wry humour, Dylan left his office and began the return trip to the Apprentice Quarters, to prepare for the final stage of his apprenticeship.

If he'd known what long and dangerous road had just opened for him, one that would lead him and his friends to honour and glory through the fires of the worst hell imaginable, he probably wouldn't have been quite so amused at the prospect.


	2. Chapter 1- A Harrowing Experience

**Aaaaand I'm back! SO sorry for the late update, just came back from holiday and had to crash for a bit so my mind could reboot. Anyway, here's the beginning of the Origin quest, so enjoy and review.**

* * *

Dylan awoke to the sight of Templars entering the chambers. Well, 'awoke' was the wrong term. 'Forcefully dragged out of his bed in the dead of night and his face dunked in ice water' would have been a far more accurate description.

"Andraste's tits man!" he swore, spluttering as he shook some of the water out of his hair "do you have any idea what time it is?!"

Cullen grinned down at him before seizing the mage by his armpits and hoisted him to his feet whilst others dusted himself down, smoothing the creases out of his robe before getting his bearings.

"It's time, isn't it?" the words were out of his mouth before his sleep-addled brain could completely process them. Cullen nodded solemnly, his usually bright eyes sombre and subdued as he and another Templar flanked him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. _Damn_, Dylan thought as he began the long climb to the Harrowing Chamber, _they actually care_. He walked quietly, not willing to wake anyone else at this Maker-forsaken hour, although the effort was ruined when you have two heavily armoured goliaths clomping beside you.

He glanced around as they entered the main hall, his mind dredging up a thousand memories of days spent here. He could almost hear the phantom voices, laughing and shouting as only children can, and pictured them running through the halls with bright smiles on their faces.

He sighed, feeling inhumanly tired and unnaturally old. _This is what happens when you get woken up during the wee hours of the morning_ he thought, bewildered by how he could feel old at the tender age of twenty.

_Is this how Irving feels every day?_ Dylan pondered, feeling a stirring of sympathy for his mentor as he felt heavy weights seep into his bones. They were quickly banished as he raced forward, eager to get this entire process out of the way.

"Damn Dylan, slow down!" came Cullen's amused shout from behind him, the two Templars thundering down the halls in order to keep up. Dylan just laughed and ran on, dodging through old hallways and cold, empty rooms.

It was at the base of the stairs leading to the Harrowing chamber, as he slumped against the wall, that the full seriousness of the situation hit him like a High Dragon tail to the face. There was a very real chance of him dying before the sun rose, of him never seeing the sun rise again, or the stars in all their mysterious glory. He had thought of death before, who hadn't, but the fact that he could die today was most disturbing.

Most people thought of death to only occur in their twilight years, or on some bloodied battlefield which would quickly fade from memory. But for Dylan, the fact that he could die in the next few hours- hell, the next few minutes- was like a dragon's talon digging into his chest.

He stumbled and fell, his hand shooting forward to slam into the rough stonework of the wall to prevent his face from connecting with bone-crushing force, his knees scraping against the rugs through the fabric of his robes, as tears began to build in his eyes. He savagely swiped them away, despite the tightness in his chest. One of the cardinal rules of the Circle that was drilled into every new apprentice by the elder ones: show no weakness.

So as Cullen rounded the corner, Dylan's face was his usual mask of humorous nonchalance, burying the fear and terror deep beneath. As they rose through the levels, Dylan began the lengthy process of preparing his mind for every possible situation that could occur. And so it was, with the air of a condemned man walking to the headsman's block, the young mage took his first step into the Harrowing Chamber.

* * *

The first thing that struck Dylan about the Harrowing Chamber was the sheer amount of light. Barely any torches lined the walls, instead vast volumes of moonlight shone through the many windows in the circular wall. The silver beams illuminated the room better than any number of candles or torches ever could. The next was the unmistakable bulk of the Knight-Commander standing tall next to the silhouette of the First Enchanter, before one of the great windows.

"_Magic exists to server man, and never to rule over him_" Greagoir quoted, striding forward with a determined gait. "So spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is a gift, but also a curse. Demons of the dream realm- the Fade- are drawn to you; and seek to use you as a gateway into this world." He looked over Dylan's shoulder and gave a slight nod, indicating a change in spokesman.

"This is why the Harrowing exists." the wizened and very much welcome voice of Irving resounded in his ears as he walked behind him to stand at his right shoulder, "The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will."

Dylan blinked owlishly, his mind going into overdrive to comprehend what he had just heard. Face a demon? With barely any preparation? It made sense, to some degree, as it recreated the most likely conditions of a possible demon attack, and when a mage would be at their weakest.

"What happens if I do not defeat the demon?" he asked, more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than anything else. The thinning of Irving's mouth and the tightening of the skin around Greagoir's eyes spoke volumes.

"Then you will become an abomination, and we will slay you where you stand." That was the only answer Greagoir needed to give, but the words still chilled him to the bone.

This was why Templars were universally despised and feared by mages; their apparent Maker-given-right to execute any mage they suspected of being possessed. But in this case, it was the only hope of salvation he had. He looked Cullen dead in the eye, catching the slightly terrified gleam in the Templar's iris, and sent a single message across the gap. _Whatever you do, don't hesitate_.

His gaze then drifted to the pedestal in the centre of the room, the turquoise glow making it an immediate eye-catcher. Greagoir, noticing the direction of his eyes, elaborated. "This is lyrium, the very essence of magic and your gateway into the Fade."

Dylan's eyes narrowed as he stared at the pool, then he noticed the hungry leers of some of the Templar's in the room. Poor sods he thought, remembering that lyrium addiction was how the Chantry leashed the Templars and kept them in line. All mages knew that, and the Templars knew that they knew, but each side pretended they didn't. Irving then seized him by the shoulders and turned him round so he faced the First Enchanter.

"The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity child" he explained, giving his protégé a soft but firm shake "Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you." He released his grip on Dylan's shoulders before continuing, using his hands to emphasise his points. "Keep your wits about you, and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real." Greagoir took a step forward, his disapproval plain to see.

"The apprentice must go through this test _alone_, First Enchanter." Irving may have been chagrined at being interrupted, but he gave no sign as he stepped away. Greagoir gestured towards the pedestal, stepped aside so as to grant clear access.

"You _are_ ready" his words left no room for misinterpretation; Dylan either accepted the test, or he would be slain were he stood. Taking a fortifying breath, and one final glance at Irving, the young mage straightened his spine, pushed his shoulders back and marched to the pedestal. He glanced down at the light blue liquid, a sliver of hate emerging at the sight of the substance that had caused so much pain over the centuries, and slowly placed his hand on the centre.

A bright light engulfed his hand as the specially-treated lyrium infused his skin. He stared at it in mild confusion before the light grew in intensity, blinding in its brightness, and darkness claimed him, whisking him away from the world.

* * *

Dylan awoke with a pounding head, rising from the dusty ground, a hand clutching his skull. He blinked as his mind caught up with current events.

"So this is the Fade?" he asked rhetorically, glancing around the mind-bending landscape, soaking it in. "Not bad" a sly smirk slithered onto his face and his eyes began to twinkle with a familiar mischievous gleam "Not bad at all."

He noticed a path off to the right and turned to follow; barely hearing the slow, deep thuds off in the distance, like a great pair of wings in flight. He strolled through the Fade, observing everything with a critical eye and occasionally blasting the few wisps that attacked him. Yet the wing beats- as he referred to them- continued, and seemed to grow closer.

"Someone else thrown to the wolves, as fresh and unprepared as ever?!" Dylan immediately looked around for the source of the voice, before glancing down at…a rat? Yep, a talking rat. He was definitely going mad. "It's not right they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, anyone!" the mouse exclaimed, in an oddly human voice, which made Dylan raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You're…a rat. A talking rat." Despite the obviousness of the statement, Dylan couldn't stop the words slipping out.

The mouse laughed before saying "You think you're here? In that body? You look like that because you think you do!" it sighed before continuing "It's always the same. But it's not your fault. You're in the same boat I was, aren't you?" the rat suddenly flashed with eye-stabbing brilliance, causing Dylan to throw up his arm to shield his sight. When the light faded, another mage clad in crimson robes stood before him, his arms open in greeting.

"Allow me to welcome you to the Fade" he said with a sarcastic drawl, dropping his arms as the deprecating smile fell from his face "you can call me…well, Mouse." Dylan snorted at the irony of the name, rolling his eyes before glancing pointedly at the spirit.

"Not your real name, I take it?" he asked, arms folded across his chest, using one hand to gesture whilst raising an eyebrow in query. Mouse shook his head, replying "No. I can't remember anything from…before." He began to pace, hands folded primly behind his back, as he explained. "The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see" his said, his voice slowly gaining passion as he built up his rant "They figure you failed, and they don't want anything getting out." He swept his arms forward beseechingly, his eyes pleading for understanding. "That's what happened to me, I think. Now I have no body to go back to!" Dylan blanched at the thought of never being able to return to his body, never being able to see any of his friends again.

Then Irving's words rang in his mind, back from one of his very first lessons: s_pirits and demons rule the Fade, do not trust everything they say or do_. Dylan suddenly became very, very cautious, unsure if this was all an elaborate ruse. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at his new friend. Mouse blinked, his mouth agape as though the answer was as obvious as the sun rising in the east.

"Are you so cynical that you would even think I would allow another poor soul to suffer through the same torture I did?!" the question was more of a distorted screech that clawed at Dylan's eardrums. He grimaced in pain, hands twitching at his sides to resist the urge to slam them over his ears.

"Can't really blame me" he grunted, shaking his head to eliminate the residual ringing "this IS the Fade, after all." Mouse stopped suddenly, every muscle in his body freezing before speaking, his voice curt and clipped. "There's something powerful caged here, just for you. That's your way out." With a flash of light he transformed back into his rat form, scurrying toward Dylan's boot. "I'll just stick around; make sure nothing does too badly wrong."

Dylan sighed as the rat crawled into his shadow, rubbing his temples with the thumb and ring finger of his right hand. Things were never simple, were they? He abandoned his musing in favour of continuing down the path, at a slightly quicker pace than before. He passed an enclosed arena, with flames flickering against the back wall. He ignored Mouse's comments in favour of observing with his own two eyes. Soon, he saw a spirit clad in what appeared to be Templar armour, with weapon racks surrounding it bristling with swords and axes, whilst it held a finely wrought staff in its hands. "Another spirit here" Mouse said with exasperation "it never lived up to its name, to me." Dylan ignored him as he strode towards the spirit. Noticing him, the spirit carefully leant the staff against one of the racks before turning to face him fully.

"Another mortal thrown to the flames and left to burn, I see" the spirit said conversationally, its voice seeming to echo across the Fade as it resonated in Dylan's ears, masking the sound of beating wings that had been diluted by the ambient noise. "Your mages have devised a cowardly test. Better you were pitted against each other to prove your mettle with skill, then to be sent unarmed against a demon."

Dylan found himself nodding in agreement, saying "I agree, but didn't have a choice." The spirit nodded, replying with a quick "Indeed; that fault lies with those in your tower" The spirit's tone turned thoughtful, and it shifted back onto its heels as it continued "That you remain means you have not yet defeated your hunter. I wish you a glorious battle to come!" Bubbling with curiosity, Dylan asked "What virtue are you, _spiritus bonus_?" tilting his head in puzzlement, the Tevinter phrase sliding in unconsciously.

The spirit laughed, a deep booming laugh that rolled through the air like mist. "I am a Spirit of Valor, mortal" it replied, the humour never leaving its voice "It would appear that not all apprentices are of limited knowledge of the Fade as most would assume." Suddenly, Valor's head snapped around to look Dylan dead in the eye, all other sounds fading to almost nothing aside from one.

The beat of those infernal wings- their owners refusing to show themselves- seem to flood the air and pound against his eardrums. Then the sound of a mighty roar shattered the air, the noise resonating across the Fade and deep in Dylan's bones.

"You know that sound, do you not?" Valor asked, his tone knowing as his eyes bore into Dylan's skull. Dylan cocked his head to one side, listening intently. The sound was familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Listen well, burn it to memory." Valor said sagely, turning back to his staff "for when you here it again, it will be the day your life is forever changed." Dylan didn't respond, still deep in thought with placing the sound. He was dragged from his musing when he heard the shimmering sound of magic.

He glanced at Valor's staff, then at his bare hands, and asked "What would I have to do to earn one of your weapons?" The question came so suddenly that even Mouse squeaked in surprise. Valor merely blinked, saying "Defeat me in honourable combat, and you will have earned your staff" He then selected a sword from a nearby rack. "Are the terms understood?" the spirit asked as he began to circle the cornered mage. Dylan merely nodded, then dived to the side as Valor lunged at him to avoid getting gored through the ribcage. Summoning ghostly fire, he shot a stream of superheated flame at the spirit, watching as it engulfed his heavily-armoured form. To ensure the spirit was defeated, he threw a bolt of arcane energy into the conflagration, hearing a satisfying ping as it collided with armour. "

You have proved yourself, mortal" the voice of Valor echoed from behind him, and he spun around to see the spirit burn free, holding the staff in question in his hands. "Per the rules of our duel, this staff is yours." As his fingers closed around the haft, Dylan internally gawped at the sheer amount of power that coursed through it. He gaped for a few seconds before a strangled "Many thanks, noble spirit" emerged from his throat. He then turned on his heels and began to walk away from the spirit. Valor watched him leave, waiting until Dylan was out of earshot before muttering a quiet "_Honor meus est, o Princeps Dracones_" and disappearing back into the Fade.

* * *

Dylan, unaware of the spirit's final words, continued his stroll through the realm of dreams. He had to dispatch three spirit wolves when they got a little too inquisitive, marveling at the abilities of his new staff. Soon, he saw what appeared to be a Bereskarn sleeping near a wall.

"Careful, there's another spirit here, not the one hunting you, but still…" Mouse trailed, unable to finish his sentence. The point was clear enough; if it was another demon Dylan would have to be on his toes. As he approached the beast stirred, opening one amber eye to stare them down.

"Ah, so you, are the mortal, being hunted?" the voice sounded refined if weary, each small phrase followed by a slight yawn "And the small one? Is he to be a snack-" another yawn "-for me?" Mouse suddenly transformed into his human form, saying "I…don't like this. He's not going to help us. We should go." The hostility in his voice was almost palpable, which immediately got Dylan curious. The spirit sighed, lumbering to its feet with a mighty thud. "No matter. The demon will get you, eventually, and perhaps there will even be scraps left." The relish with which the spirit said that sent chills running down Dylan's spine and confirming his fears. But, like everything that ran through his head, he had to be sure.

"What kind of spirit are you?" It was Mouse who answered, much to their mutual amazement. "It's a demon." he said simply "Maybe even more powerful than the one chasing after you." Dylan sighed, his fears confirmed. The demon echoed his actions, before crying "Begone! Surely you have better things to do than bother Sloth, mortal. I tire of you already." As Sloth lowered himself to the ground, Dylan tried a different tact. "I need help defeating a demon" he started, fully aware of Sloth's most likely answer, yet still wanting to try and gain aid. Sloth yawned- predictably- before sighing "You have a very nice staff. Why would you need me? Go; use your weapon since you've earned it. Be valorous." Dylan snorted in annoyance, if there was ever an embodiment of laziness; it was the demon lounging before him.

Mouse cocked his head to one side, examining Sloth before saying "He looks powerful. He could teach you to become like him." That caught Dylan's interest. He had heard of mages that could change their forms at will, mages living far beyond the reach of the Templars, in the distant corners of the world. He had researched these 'shapeshifters' extensively, scouring nearly every book on the topic- both from the extensive library and those he…acquired, elsewhere- learning everything he could possibly find about them.

Many of these 'hedge witches', as they were known, had learned the art of copying the form of any animal they came across. To assume its form, they had to study it; it's lifestyle, its movements, its diet, how it thought, how it acted. They had to literally learn how that animal lived so as to create a near exact replica and interpose it over their own bodies. This gave them a plethora of advantages over their more civilised kin. They could traverse any terrain, provided they possessed a form better suited to it than their human one. They could quite easily survive in the wilderness, whereas others not trained in their art would most likely struggle. He had begged Irving to teach him, or send him to someone else who could, some of this seemingly lost magic, but each time he had been turned down. So the idea was not a new one, but the chance to actually try sent Dylan's heart a-pounding.

His hopes were once again dashed as Sloth chuckled, again lazily opening one eye to stare incredulously at them. "Why would a mortal change to another form? They seem too attached to their current one to even be inclined to." Dylan had to concede that much was true: humans were incredibly attached to their bodies, and it was very hard to convince anyone to let go of their own senses and see the world through the eyes of another, 'lesser' creature. _Unless it's a dragon_ he thought wryly, imagining how many mages would jump at the chance to transform into one of those majestic beasts. Then another thought struck him, astounding in its simplicity, yet incredibly useful if utilized correctly.

"I may not be able to change" he suddenly declared, turning his gaze meaningfully to Mouse "but _you_ can." A look of mild amusement passed over the mage's face, before being replaced by abject terror. It happened so quickly Dylan doubted anything had actually happened.

"Uh, I don't think I'd make a very good bear" he said quickly, his eyes darting to the shifting ground "how would I hide?" Dylan's patience had finally reached breaking point, Mouse's constant 'avoidance' of his problems were what had landed him in this mess to begin with. "Sometimes you can't run from your problems!" he snapped, his voice sounding harsher than he had intended, but his frustration overrode his common sense. It had the desired effect though; Mouse froze as he had before, every muscle going tense for a few moments.

"Alright, I see your point" his response was followed by his entire torso slumping forward. Sloth eyed him, not wary, nor overly excited. Simply curious. "Teach him how to change" Dylan said, his words more of a demand than a request, but he had little patience left. Sloth sighed, before giving a simple proposition. "I give you a test of riddles. Pass, and you shall have you seek. Fail, and I shall devour you both. Deal?" Mouse looked at Dylan in alarm, his eyes as wide as dinner platters. Dylan mulled the problem over in his mind. On one hand, he didn't know that the demon would keep his word and not simply devour them on the spot. But on the other, they really needed the help. "Very well" he declared "I agree to your terms, Sloth." Mouse started looking truly afraid whilst Sloth lay back down, resting his massive head on his paws.

"Truly? This gets more and more promising. The first riddle: I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?" Dylan smiled at that one; that had been the most common riddle used in the mental dexterity tests Uldred often ran, to help mages increase the flexibility of their thinking.

"A map" he said confidently, certain that he had got the answer. There was a slight pause, where silence filled the air and tension grew. "Hmm, correct" was Sloth's slightly chagrined response, obviously feeling cheated of his meal. "The second riddle: I am rarely touched, but often held. If you have wit, you'll use me well. What am I?" Dylan paused, examining each and every part of the riddle, going over it word by word. This was tricky, he actually had to think about the answer. _Better than becoming demon munchies_ he thought, still mulling over the answer. "My tongue?" he said slowly, his voice rising at the end so it sounded more of a question than an answer.

Obviously Sloth was used to such answers, and sighed with "Yes, your witty tongue. Fair enough. One more try, shall we?" Dylan smiled slightly in triumph, his skill with deduction and word play wasn't completely rusty it seemed. Sloth seemed to grow agitated, knowing he only had one last chance to trick them and gain his meal. "The last riddle:" this he said with a note of finality "Always will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee; I'll amuse you an entire eve but alas, you won't remember me. What am I?" Dylan stilled, as motionless as a granite statue, his mind working furiously to try and find some hint, some detail that he could use to find the answer. Moments passed, yet he could not find one. Sweat beaded his brow as his mind became a whirlwind of possibilities, each one nearly as ridiculous as the licked his lips, sensing his impending meal. Mouse looked on nervously, both fear and something else warring in his eyes, something decidedly not quite human, even for a mage.

Dylan screamed in frustration, little more than a very low shriek, the sound of his cry echoing unnaturally across the Fade, bouncing like a stone skipping over water. It was the sound of the echoes that gave him the thread he had been grasping for, his mind going back to Greagior's words before the ritual: _Demons from the dream realms- the Fade- seek to use you as a gateway into our world_. And what lasted an eve yet no one ever completely remembered but a dream?

"A dream" he said, spinning to stare Sloth straight in the eye "the answer is a dream." The silence that followed seemed to stretch infinitely, the tension thick enough to cut with a dragonbone knife. "Hmm, you are, correct" came the rather annoyed response "rather apropos here in the Fade, no?" It was all Dylan could do to stifle the urge to bounce around in celebration, something he hadn't done since he was seven. Sloth once again lumbered to his feet, his eyes burning with indignation. Although he may have lost, demons were nothing if not businessmen (_business-spirits?_) and so stuck to the original deal they had made.

Thus Sloth was bound to his word, teaching Mouse how to transform and utilize his new form. "Go then, defeat your demon" were Sloth's parting words as he disappeared back into the haze, his eyes boring into Dylan's whilst seeming to say: _and good luck with that_. Dylan shrugged, he'd gotten this far, no point stopping now. He strode back towards the arena he'd passed earlier, a now bear-formed Mouse lumbering beside him.

They encountered more spirit wolves on their way, dispatching them even quicker than before; Mouse's claws slashing through the wolves' ethereal forms like a hot sword through butter, whilst Dylan dispatched the others beyond the bear's reach with fire, ice, lightning and the odd boulder. But as they neared the arena the air grew hotter, like walking nearer to a dwarven furnace, sweat beginning to soak into Dylan's robes whilst the staff became slick in his hand. Mouse was surprising unaffected despite the thick layer of fur that coated his body, which Dylan found strange. The Fade is a place of illusion he thought, trying to rationalise the phenomenon this heat could simply be another. When they arrived at the arena proper, there was something already waiting for them. A creature of flame, shapeless yet not, nothing more than a blob with arms and burning orange eyes, crawled out of the ground, liquid fire spewing from the chasm left in its wake. "And there is a spirit of rage" Mouse explained, narrowing his eyes at the demon. Dylan swept his staff up into a ready position whilst calmly approaching the demon (he was inexperienced, not stupid.) As if sensing him, the rage demon swung its gaze to land squarely on Dylan, its eyes glared balefully and filled with hate. "Soon I shall see the world through your eyes, mortal" the demon said, its voice as malevolent as its appearance, low and threatening, and so full of certainty as to border on arrogance. Dylan raised a condescending eyebrow, probably not the best idea but at this point he really didn't care.

"If you want me" he challenged, baring his staff before him and setting his feet "come and get me." The demon narrowed its eyes yet further, reducing them to nothing more than mere slits in its head. "Oh, I shall" it snarled, glaring at him before noticing Mouse at his side, in human form this time. "So this is your gift to me Mouse?" it asked, gesturing to Dylan with a twig-like arm "I thought you could do better." Mouse bared his teeth in a savage snarl, apparently having gained some courage during their little jaunt.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore!" he cried, raising his hand in a 'come at me' gesture "I'm not doing anything for you any longer!" The demon quieted, saying only "Aw, and after all those meals we shared" before turning his gaze back to Dylan. The mage's mind swam, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. Mouse had been a thrall to a demon? The idea seemed absurd, almost impossible. But he had no more time to think, for the demon had decided to charge him. Sweeping his staff up and over his shoulders, he grew in every scrap of fire surrounding him, creating a small flaming wall behind him. It was a good idea, because not a second later six wasp wraiths appeared around them, four of them getting caught in the flames. Mouse charged the other two in bear form, trying to bat them out of the air as a cat might do to a sparrow.

Dylan had his hands full of rage demon, desperately trying to juggle both dealing damage and not getting hit, which is actually a lot harder than it sounds. The small number of ice spells he used seemed to have the greatest effect, but they took time of cast, time that right now he didn't have. The demon swiped at him with its claws, aiming for his abdomen and meeting the haft of the mage's staff halfway. It looked up just in time to receive a lightning bolt straight to the face, followed by a rather small ice blast. Dylan could feel the fires around him, each one like a beacon in his mind.

_Fire, flames… rage?_

His idea was ludicrous, but that would explain why the demon stuck out so clearly to his senses. It was like a walking furnace, churning out such vast quantities of heat you could have melted red steel in it. He tried to draw from the demon's fire, to try and separate at least a part from the original body. Hence his surprise when the demon all but screeched as one of its arms detached from its shoulder, falling to the ground in a puddle of liquid fire. The demon roared at him, trying to charge him before he could try anything else, sliding across the arena as fast as a man could run.

But before the demon could inflict its terrible and- most likely incredibly painful- retribution, Mouse blindsided it in a shower of sparks and cinders, dragging it to the ground as he tore at its face. Dylan stood panting, leaning heavily on his staff, as the demon slipping back into the fiery chasm from whence it came, and disappearing back into the ground. Mouse transformed into his human form again, standing in the middle of the arena, a small smile playing across his face.

"You did it!" he cheered, his smile transforming into a full-blown grin "you defeated your demon and proved your worth as a mage!" Dylan smiled, but couldn't help feeling he wasn't missing a rather piece of the puzzle. "I don't know" he said, doubt knowing at his gut "it seemed a little too easy." A flicker of doubt appeared on Mouse's face, but gone in less than a heartbeat, but it had been there. "That's because you are one of the worthy, one of the truly great mages." Then Mouse's expression turned coy, and Dylan knew that the demon he'd faced wasn't the true test. "And maybe there's a place for me somewhere in there? A little help, perhaps?" the statement was phrased as a question, but the entire idea sent a dangerous shiver down Dylan's spine.

"The people who trapped you, what were their names?" he asked suddenly, apparently out of the blue, which was his intent. Mouse mentally staggered, completely off guard by the sudden topic change. "I'm…not sure. I already told you, I don't remember anything from before!" the indignation with which he said it confirmed Dylan's hypothesis; every mage knew the names of the Templars that took them to their Harrowing, even if only in passing. Surely the Circle hadn't changed that much?

"I get a feeling that demon wasn't the true test." Dylan stated, his narrowed gaze fixed firmly of Mouse. His jaw dropped slightly whilst his eyes widened. "What? Of course it was!" Mouse shouted, outraged at the suggestion, "What else could possibly challenge an apprentice of you potential…" Mouse trailed off as he caught the triumphant gleam in Dylan's eye: the bastard had figured him out. "Huh, aren't you a smart one?" Then Mouse's voice changed, becoming lower, deeper and much less human.

"**Simple killing is a warrior's job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust…Pride.**" And with that, Mouse transformed again; rising to over nine feet tall, his skin changing to purple scales, his head expanding and gaining extra eyes, teeth becoming sharpened fangs, until Dylan stood before the most dangerous of all Fade denizens: a demon of Pride. He staggered back, shocked at the change in size and appearance. Chuckling, it said "**Keep your wits about mage. True tests…****_never end_****.**" and just as Dylan began to leave the Fade behind, he heard it warn "**Beware the dark Call, Dragon Prince, lest it lead you astray from the path...**" before returning to the waking world.

_Review please! Box is waiting!_


	3. Chapter 2- Of Might and Magic

Dylan groaned as harsh light pierced his eyes. He flung an arm over his face to block out the source of the stabbing pain in his retinas. He turned onto his side to hide his face, but sometime during his trance the Templars must have moved him back into the apprentice quarters.

With a yelp worthy of a surprised mabari, Dylan tumbled to the floor, landing flat on his face with an ignoble splat.

"Huh, so I see you're finally awake," said the equally surprised and amused voice of Jowan, who stood before Dylan's sprawled form with his arms folded over his chest. The shaggy mop of black hair nearly covered his shining eyes and impish grin.

"Very funny, Jowan" he grumbled, grabbing the side of the bunk and hefting himself to his feet, slipping into his leather boots with the ease of years of routine. As he laced each one carefully with nimble fingers, Jowan asked, "So you passed your Harrowing, huh? I know I'm not supposed to know, but what's it like?" At Dylan's warning glare, he raised his hands in surrender with a protest of, "We're friends! What's a little secret between friends?"

Dylan softened his glare into a worried glance, before directing his gaze to the toes of his boots and sighing, running a hand down his face, noting the thick build-up of stubble across his jaw. "I'm not sure you'd handle it Jowan" he admitted, almost ashamed of himself for that simple confession. He felt more than saw Jowan stiffen as he seated himself on the bunk, the shame and guilt tightening in his gut like a very large snake.

"Not sure I'd handle it? I'd have to know what 'it' was before I could say if I could handle it or not!" came Jowan's indignant reply, the mage throwing his hands up in frustration and began to pace. Dylan began to feel worse and worse after each step Jowan took, the tension building by the second.

"You're sent into the Fade!" he blurted, unable to handle the strain on his conscience any longer. That was a downside to putting the welfare of your friends before your own, a conscience the size of a bronto and twice as loud. Jowan immediately brightened, the glower lifting from his face as he stopped his pacing to stand at the foot of the bunk.

"Really? That's it?" he asked, almost disappointed at the apparently simple test. A very familiar smirk found its way onto Dylan's face, his eyes all but shining in his skull.

"And you have to face down a demon, not get possessed or fall for any other Fade-spawned stuff and, oh, if by chance you fail, the Templars cut you down instantaneously. Y'know, all the normal fun stuff of life in the Circle." The priceless look of shock on Jowan's face immediately made Dylan collapse in laughter, tears forming in his eyes as he rolled on the floor, clutching at his sides.

His laugh had the bonus effect of alerting others of his waking, and suddenly the door of the chamber burst open, followed by a black-haired form colliding heavily with his chest.

"You're alive!" Neria all but sobbed into his shoulder, her lithe arms constricting around his chest like the jaws of a blight wolf, crushing the breath from his lungs.

"Soon won't be," he grunted as he squirmed slightly, "air is kind of vital to living, is it not?" The she-elf's eyes widened in surprise as she released him, watching as he heaved in great gulps of air he had once took for granted, her mortification fading as colour returned to his flesh, trying to ignore the semi-hysterical laughter of Jowan from the other side of the bed. Neria indignantly threw a nearby pillow at him, with the bonus result of it landing square in his face, not only muffling his surprised cry, but also knocking him to the floor.

"Irving wanted to see you when you woke up" was all she said before departing, effortlessly gliding across the floor. With one final glance at Jowan, still on the floor with a faceful of pillow, Dylan rose and headed for the stairs to the upper levels. He walked, quite calmly compared to the pounding of his heart, up the stairs and towards Irving's office. It was a calm, self-assured countenance.

It barely lasted a minute.

"Neria!" He called after her, racing past and shouldering through any groups that stood in his way as he caught up to his friend, grabbing her by the shoulder and spinning her around to face him.

She glared up at him, emerald eyes burning like small suns in her skull, before softening into the familiar green orbs he knew and loved. She smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of auburn hair away from his eyes.

"You look good for a man who just looked death in the eye," she said, a mischievous gleam twinkling in her eyes, the beginning of a smirk brushing at the corners of her mouth. Dylan smirked in response, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his side.

"Just another day, darling." he quipped in the most atrocious Antivan accent he could muster, his voice all but purring at the end. He grinned like Mister Wiggums after he caught the pair of canaries in the Circle stockroom.

Neria immediately burst into peals of laughter, her voice echoing down the hall like liquid silver, as they strode towards Irving's office. As they entered the second floor, Neria's eyes were immediately drawn to a certain armoured Templar standing nervously by one of the arches. Cullen glanced at them before immediately looking away again, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

Dylan noticed the evil smirk on Neria's face too late, as she wriggled out of his hold and began a sensual walk towards the already-flustered Templar, accentuating the sway of her hips through her robes, the hems swishing around her ankles. Dylan almost felt sorry for Cullen as the she-elf seductively ran a hand over his breastplate, whispering into his ear (dirty things, judging by the amount of blood infusing the poor man's face).

Almost.

He couldn't help but laugh as Cullen all but bolted from Neria's tempting grasp, nearly tripping over his own boots as he fled, and the adorable pout on her face as she watched him go.

Chuckling, he grabbed her gently by the arm and all-but dragged her down the corridor towards Irving's office. As they approached, raised voices could clearly be heard from within, one of them all too familiar.

"…many have already gone to Ostagar- Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages!" Greagoir's voice resonated like a drum, each word a single beat, with the fervour of belief them "We've committed enough of our own to this war effort-" The rasping chuckle of the First Enchanter stopped the Knight Commander mid-speech, a look of amusement creeping over the old man's face.

"Your own? Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir?" Irving's beard quivered with barely-restrained mirth, his eyes alight, cutting years from his face. Dylan felt a responding grin twitch at the corners of his mouth, mirroring his mentor's own amused smirk. "Or are you afraid of letting the mages out from under Chantry supervision, where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?"

The question threw Greagoir off-guard, the flash of rage in his eyes impossible to miss. "How dare you suggest-" he began, pointing an accusing plated finger, before being interrupted by a third person, bringing attention to the other group already there.

There were four in total- a lightly armoured, swarthy looking man, with obsidian hair and a sword-and-dagger pair across his back; two dwarfs, one with fiery ginger hair and beard; alongside a carefully braided moustache, mimicked by the braids around his temples, clad in fine mail with a targe on his back and a rather large mace tied to his belt, and another clad in patchwork leathers, with faint chestnut stubble and hair in short braids, a crossbow and quiver of bolts across his back, with a large, vicious-looking knife in his belt, alongside various pouches filled with Maker-knew what.

The final member of their party was an elven woman, clad in leathers with flaxen blonde tresses that fell to her bosom and piercing grey eyes, with a wicked pair of daggers sheathed at her slim waist. All of them stood somewhere in the office, either casually browsing the tomes along one of the walls, or perched precariously on the side of the desk.

"Gentlemen, please," The leader- or so they assumed from his intricate armour- tried to ease the growing tension in the room, gently pushing the two men apart "Irving, someone is here to see you." All attention in the room was now focused on them (and wow, wasn't that unnerving). As Neria all but shuffled inside, Dylan valiantly trying to stifle his laughter as he too entered the chamber.

"First Enchanter?" was the first phrase out of his mouth, suddenly curious as to the reason behind his invitation. Irving's eyes softened slightly, losing the hostile edge that appeared whenever he was in the presence of the Knight-Commander, or any snobbish Templar for that matter.

"Ah, if it isn't our new brother in the Circle. Come, child." Dylan stepped nervously forward, looking back over his shoulder at Neria for support. She gave him a quick grin, before returning her gaze to the newcomers. Their leader stepped forward to stand at Irving's shoulder, glancing pointedly between the two mages. "These are…?" he trailed of, turning to Irving for confirmation.

"Yes, these are they." Was Irving's rather cryptic response, which was apparently all the newcomer needed. "Well Irving," came Greagoir's rather sarcastic response, "you're obviously busy. We'll discuss this later."

Irving watched with no small amount of amusement as the Knight-Commander stormed out, though not without getting the last word in. "Of course." Then he turned his attention back to the ones who remained. "Well then…where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens." Dylan and Neria shared a look of surprised awe before returning their gaze to Duncan.

* * *

"Pleased to meet you _Aedilis Nobile_" Dylan replied, bowing slightly with the Ancient Tevene honorific sliding in unconsciously. This did not go unnoticed by the others, as the dwarves each raised a curious eyebrow, the she-elf turned her gaze from the ring in her hands to his face, even Neria seemed surprised at his knowledge of an rather vehemently acclaimed 'dead language'.

Irving and Duncan however, took it in stride, calm as you please.

"And you, my good man," Duncan followed, his voice smooth and friendly, inclining his head in a gesture of both acknowledgement and respect. Dylan found himself liking the man more every second. Then Duncan noticed the glances they were shooting at the others of his group, and a small smirk slithered onto his face.

"Ah, I see you noticed my other recruits," he said before beckoning the others over, waiting for them to all gather round before beginning introductions.

The dwarf in fine mail was Duran Aeducan, second son of King Endrin Aeducan, cast into exile after a rather nasty batch of 'Dwarven Politics' as he called it (air quotes included, apparently it was **that** momentous)

The other was Faren Brosca; ex-Carta thug, part-time smuggler, part time merchant, crossbow marksman and self-proclaimed 'bomb-creator extraordinaire', chased from Orzammar after murdering the crime boss Beraht. Clearly, he landed into the waiting arms of the Grey Wardens, allowing him to put his knowledge to good use rather than wasting away in the slums of Dust Town, apparently unconcerned for the brutality of his past exploits.

The she-elf introduced herself as Kallian Tabris, a young girl from the alienage of Denerim, conscripted by Duncan on her wedding day after 'unforeseen circumstances', and some rather nasty interference from a member of Denerim's nobility, as she later explained.

Neria blinked slowly at the last one, her face turning slightly pale, no doubt remembering her close encounter with similar kinds of men, all those long years ago. Or maybe the reaction was more due to the entirely too flippant and evasive tone the elf used to describe what an undoubtedly horrific experience that was

Kallian quickly noticed the parlour of Neria's face, and her stony expression softened to one of pity and understanding whilst pursing her lips in mutual acknowledgement.

Neria glanced up at the change in expression, before seeing the gesture for what it was and shaking her head slightly. Dylan raised a silent eyebrow in question, waggling his eyebrows at Neria's innocent shrug, setting Faren snickering and Duran to shake his head in mock despair.

Irving sighed, before retrieving some items from behind his desk. "Your Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle." Dylan scowled at the mention of the 'blood tie', as some of the more vocal apprentices called them.

"My leash, you mean!" he snarled, his good mood shattering as quickly as it arrived. Irving and Neria winced, they knew of his opinion of the practise of the phylactery, the hypocrisy of the whole situation.

"Now child" chided Irving, choosing his words carefully so as to avoid setting off Dylan's infamous temper "you know the reasons for this, deplorable as they may be."

At this point, Duncan had waited with an expression of polite inquiry on his face, but he couldn't help but ask "I'm sorry, what exactly is this phylactery?" Neria grimaced as the other recruits also took an interest- this wasn't going to end well.

Irving sighed, apparently mirroring her thoughts. "When an apprentice joins, a sample of blood is taken, and placed in an enchanted vial" Irving explained, before going into the details of the process.

Whilst the others listened, Dylan silently seethed. He understood why the Chantry outlawed blood magic; it was too easy to fall into the many dark traps the bloody path held, to give in to the greed that such power cultivated. What he didn't accept- couldn't accept- was the fact that whilst they vilified it, they in turn used it to trap every mage that passed through the great doors of the tower.

_They don't like it when we use it, but somehow it's fair when they bind us to this gilded cage with it?_ his furious mind questioned, the first embers of his burning rage beginning to smoulder.

The candles in the office began to glow brighter, their flames growing steadily larger in response to his anger. Duran noticed first, eyeing the flames warily, edging away from the candles nearest to him.

The dwarf looked Dylan dead in the eye from his place atop Irving's desk and glanced pointedly at the rising flames edging closer to his spectacular beard. "Lad, I don't know how they do it topside, but some of us aren't exactly very receptive to our faces bursting into flame." The sudden wisecrack snapped Dylan from his inner musings with a snort, the flames suddenly dropping back to their normal height, restoring balance to the room.

Neria let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, Faren glanced around nervously, whilst Kalian looked around almost impassively. Irving, somehow used to the bouts of flame-growth his apprentice caused, wiped a gnarled hand down his face.

Gesturing to a nearby chair, he elaborated "There are your Circle robes and staff, alongside a little something I scrounged up" Dylan glanced at the chair in question, saw the staff resting on the wall nearby and smiled. Then he grimaced at the yellow robes, looking down at his own, well-worn sapphire ones. He took both, hanging the robe over his forearm whilst slinging the staff over his shoulder.

He began to turn away, to changed robes, but Irving grasped his shoulder before he could leave. Into his empty hand the old man placed a single gold ring, the symbol of the Circle emblazoned on its surface, before closing his fingers around it.

He drew a slightly shaky break and, nodding his thanks whilst slipping the ring onto his right hand, slipped away into a side room to change.

* * *

Neria watched as Dylan slipped away, a soft smile adorning her face at the spring in his step. She noticed the others watching him carefully, and felt the beginnings of worry knotting in her gut. She hadn't survived this long as one of the Terrors without some kind of early warning system present in her brain. This could end one of three ways she thought, eyes flitting between the armoured figures lounging around the First Enchanter's office. Duncan and Irving were still deep in conversation, discussing topics unknown.

The two dwarves were glancing at the door that Dylan had exited through, their gazes a little too inquisitive than she liked. Since the infamous 'Night of Flames'- as many of the younger apprentices had referred to it as- when Dylan had first truly lost control, Neria had sworn she would protect him from any and all threats, even from himself, should the circumstance demand.

She had trained herself to read people, to see what they didn't want others to see, to look past the lies and false faces people often wore to disguise true intentions. She had been told by her tutors that she would make a good royal advisor, and many mages held her in high esteem for her apparent insight into the inner workings of the mind. Unfortunately for her, this also led to increased scrutiny from the Templars, many of which held Dylan responsible for the set of restrictions they had enforced upon them. He, being the sly devil everyone else knew and loved, drove them off with curt phrase or- should they push their luck- small jets of flame.

So she had acted as the buffer between him and any untoward threats, monitoring anyone and everyone for any deception or indication of harm. She was brought out of her reminiscing when Kallian shook her lightly by the shoulder.

"Sorry" she started, her thin face bashful and hazel eyes wide and curious, almost obscuring the threads of steel woven underneath. "Just wondering what that guy's deal is"

Neria sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. The Maker surely had a warped sense of humour, didn't He?

"Dylan has had a troubled life thus far" she explained, not wanting to go into any great detail, details that often led to further investigation and eventual exploitation attempts. Kalian cocked an eyebrow, noticing the evasive tone in her voice, but before she could capitalise on it the dwarves approached, their eyes alight with the joy of discovery.

"How do you live here lass?" Duran asked, one hand stroking down the length of his beard, his bushy brows furrowed in deep concentration "All these fancy robes at every turn? And what's with the weird guards glaring at everyone? Looks like they want to grab you and haul you off somewhere."

Neria's face closed off with frightening speed, like the falling portcullis of a city keep.

"You get used to the stares," she mumbled, her gaze wandering the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but the faces of the visitors. "you have to, or you spend the rest of your life paranoid of everyone." Seeing as she didn't want to talk about it, the dwarf carefully dropped the subject, asking instead about the amount of supplies the Circle needed, and where they got their funding from.

"The supplies get ferried over here from the shore," she explained, waving them over to a nearby window and pointing to the jetty across the lake, "I couldn't tell you how much we receive, half of what they contain, or how they move it from the caverns at the base all the way up here."

As she turned, she saw Dylan re-entering the study, clad in his new robes, with his ring glittering upon his finger. He nodded in their directions before motioning towards the door, finally getting underway.

* * *

"So tell me lad," Duran began, the ends of his beard jumping as he spoke "how does one end up here? Besides having magic of course." Dylan glanced down at the dwarf prince as they strode down the hallway, Duncan behind them as Dylan led them to the Warden's quarters.

"Well, it depends on how the magic manifests first" he explained, looking at the dwarf from the corner of his eye, not wanting to run into stray Templar or mage on the way "if the first instance is gentle or non-violent, the Templars arrive with another mage in tow, mainly to ensure the poor sod doesn't get accidentally possessed on the way back."

For some reason Duran found that remark quite humorous, his chuckles echoing off the stone walls like granite boulders. On his other side, Dylan caught sight of a smile forming on Faren and Duncan's faces, once again proof that the rumours of Grey Warden apathy were completely false. He also noticed Kalian and Neria chatting away quite happily behind them, if the amount of hand motion on Neria's part was any indication. He smiled at that, a small wan smile, but a genuine one. Neria was often shy around strangers, even more so after her attempted rape those few short years ago. To see her making friends so quickly was heart-warming.

"You mentioned another circumstance lad" Duran's gravelly voice brought him back to the present, the here and now, whilst his words shattered whatever good mood he'd had. "Ah" and just like that, he face closed off, the gates of his mind booming shut. His hands clenched at his sides in half-remembered rage, memories hammering against his skull "that." The silence hung heavy in the air, all eyes riveted to Dylan's form.

"In the case where magic is released forcefully..." His voice gaining an icy tinge "or under duress, any Templars sent are ordered to restrain the child, by any means necessary. Ropes, pretty lightshows, candy." His voice was a carefully controlled exercise in sarcasm. Years of practice allowed him to keep the terrible roar he wanted to unleash well buried in his mind. One day he'll be able to release it with a force matching an entire army's battlecry, but this wasn't the time or place, nor the company. His voice was deliberately cheerful as he continued. "You know, anything and everything that would prevent further instability or odds of possession by demons." _No matter if he's pulled from his mother's arms in the street, or taken from his home in the dead of night_. Dylan carefully didn't vocalize his true opinion regarding children dragged by merciless hands to a gilded cage. _It's not like mages are people anyway_, he internally scoffed. Or was it a sneer? Still, he was sure that the heart of the matter had been more than clear. Dylan didn't need to look behind to know Neria had probably stiffened defensively, eyes darting between each of the new arrivals, gauging them with a fake smile, guessing their deductions and anticipating responses.

As Dylan walked, he distracted himself with the probable reactions of the others in the fantasy where he had gone ahead and blown his top, something he worked each day to restrain himself from. Kalian would have probably just stopped open-mouthed and wide-eyed in incomprehension, Faren would have grimaced, possibly drawing parallels to Dust Town if Dylan's estimate of his life was any indication. He wondered if Duran would have started to shake with anger. Considering the fire carefully contained behind his eyes, the mage didn't have trouble believing his rage could be every bit as hot as his own if pushed.

As it was, the dwarf prince spoke heavily but somehow not revealing just what he felt. Not to anyone who didn't already know what was there. "Then it is as I've heard," he rumbled. "After a thousand years one would think someone would have come up with a better method." There was hidden passion there, Dylan felt. It made him like the dwarf, this forgotten prince, so much so he decided to walk closer, pointedly ignoring the smirk that must have been on Neria's face. The group continued down the corridor, chatting amicably about safer topics as they walked, ignoring the strange and sometimes downright hostile stares they were attracting.

"Thank you for escorting us" was Duncan's polite dismissal as he began herding the others inside once they had reached their chosen chambers, offering one last warm smile before closing the door. Dylan and Neria looked at each other, smiling as they turned around…and nearly ran head first into a very anxious Jowan.

"There you two are!" he panted, having apparently ran up two floors just to find them "Have you finished talking to Irving?" Immediately alarm bells went off in their heads, they'd done this before- Jowan this casual wasn't just unusual, it was a sign that said 'Sweet Maker, Jowan's gone mad again'- so they sudden caution was, at least in their eyes, completely justified.

"Why are you whispering?" Dylan asked as Neria checked both ends of the hallway "What's going on Jowan?" The nervous glances the young mage sent around the corridor didn't help his shifty image. "I need to talk to you" he whispered, glancing pointedly between the two "both of you. Not here though" he raised a forestalling hand, trying to prevent the bombardment of questions he knew would come.

"Meet me in the Chantry in an hour!" With that he vanished down a dark side passage, leaving two very confused and slightly apprehensive mages staring after him.

* * *

Dylan sat cross-legged at the foot of one of the many statues of Andraste in the Tower's small chapel. His hands rested on his lap palm-up, cradling a small flame just a fingers-breadth above his flesh. Ancient mantras of the Old Gods resounded in his mind, a fact he made sure to always keep deeply hidden.

He had been thus for a good twenty minutes, eyes closed to the outside world as his mind worked overtime to process all that had happened, using the flame as a focus. He had learned this trick when he had just turned thirteen, and all the problems associated with such a turbulent time had become too much. In a valiant effort to find some measure of peace for a few minutes, he retreated to the chapel, and accidentally disturbed the Revered Mother there.

Instead of screaming at him as he expected her to, she simply smiled and patted the pew beside her. Despite her advanced age- or because of it, to this day he still wasn't sure- she was a remarkable listener, calmly letting him vent and rant to his heart's content as he spilled all his problems in one long tirade. After allowing him a fortifying breath to calm his racing heart, she calmly and methodically probed him for the source of the problem, thus stumbling upon the subject of meditation and banishing his immature hatred of Andraste's faithful.

_The world is never black and white_, he thought wryly, _never truly clear cut. There is no one Truth, no definite answer to the universe. Just as perfection is impossible, so is true enlightenment._ He shook himself from his reverie as the sound of footsteps echoed from the doorway, cracking his neck and knuckles. He banished the flame and rose just in time to see Neria entering and, before his mind could fully process the action, hastened to her side.

"So" he began, looking around "did Jowan actually say where he'd meet us here?" Neria simply shrugged, casting discreet glances across the room as though Jowan would materialise out of the stone at their feet. It was then they noticed them, huddled together in a shadowy alcove.

Jowan, and a Chantry sister.

Kissing.

The sight was strange enough for the two mages to experience a sudden case of jawdrop, one that warranted significant effort towards scraping them off the flagstone floor. Dylan, after shaking many a disturbing image from his mind, cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard by the couple.

And boy, did they hear him. They leapt apart like their skin was scolding, eyes widening as blood infused their cheeks, mouths forming perfect 'O's as they stared at each other.

"Sorry to interrupt…" Dylan threw in, not sounding sorry at all. His gin widened when Neria tried and failed to muffle a giggle behind him. "But I'm supposed to meet someone here." Of course, his signature wit caused the last of Neria's control to crumble. Her laugh bounced off the walls like a silver hurricane, light and tinkling. The sound jarred the two from their stupor, the sister's cheeks flushing a very bright red whilst Jowan glared daggers at them.

Dylan merely grinned, his eyes positively alight with mirth. Rocking back slightly on his heels, he folded his arms over his chest and waggled his eyebrows salaciously. Hiding his true feelings behind humour and sarcasm was the first thing he learned in the Circle, but sometimes it felt good to make jokes simply because he could and not as a defence mechanism. Eventually, Jowan brought down his glare and reigned in his anger. The blush faded from the Sister's cheeks as well, and so the explanations began.

Lily- the Sister's name that took far too long to coax from an apparently now stiff-lipped Jowan- had seen the authorisation form to turn Jowan Tranquil on Irving's desk and, horrified, fled to her lover's side to pass on the terrible news. Jowan had, predictably, panicked and immediately began planning to destroy his phylactery in order to escape. All he needed was a way into the repository; a rod of fire from the stockroom could melt the locks off the door and let them in. And he needed their help to do it.

Neria had instantly agreed, with no thought to the consequences. Dylan, however, had to think about it. Consider every possibility; every angle, every consequence. "Alright" he eventually agreed, noticing the subtle-yet-not brightening of Lily's face, and the sagging of Jowan's shoulders "we'll get the rod, and meet you back here." The others nodded as Dylan and Neria turned on their heels and left.

He grabbed Neria gently by the shoulder and bent slight at the waist to whisper in her ear "You go the stockroom, I need to see Irving" She tilted her head in mild confusion, narrowing her eyes slightly before nodding and running off. Dylan sighed as he watched her go; he envied such serenity, such collected calm. He set off at a brisk pace; not quite running, but walking with purpose, towards Irving's office.

* * *

Neria worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she watched Dylan round the corner towards the First Enchanter's study. There was something fundamentally wrong with him, ever since his Harrowing. He had become more withdrawn, more subdued, more wary. It worried her greatly, such a profound change in behaviour was never a good sign in mages, normally resulting in a catastrophic emotional breakdown somewhere down the line.

Mentally shelving the topic, she all but skipped her way down the hall towards the stockroom, desperate to get this entire plan over and out of the way.

As she turned the corner she spotted a familiar Templar standing almost awkwardly to one side, and her heart fluttered slightly. Ever since Cullen had rescued her amid the chaos of the Night of Flames, her opinion of him had changed drastically. Things she would not normally have noticed became prominent; the set of his jaw, the way his hair swept over his brow just so, the firmness of his muscles, the list was almost endless. It would be a grand understatement to say she had to quell a few not-so-innocent thoughts about the Knight in question.

_And why not,_ she pondered, eying Cullen in her periphery, _he's so adorable when he blushes._ Changing her course, she sauntered towards him, consciously adding additional sway into her hips and slightly widening her eyes, making them more innocent, and all the more inviting. Cullen noticed her immediately, as did the two Templars with him, who began to chuckle at the poor man's imminently sweet yet torturous conversation.

As predicted; blood immediately infused Cullen's face at Neria's expression, the shade darkening at the sight of her swaying hips. "Hey" she said, gliding up to him and stopping at his elbow, slanting her head up to look into his ocean-blue eyes. _So beautiful_ she thought, her cheeks heating at the thoughts of what effect she could have on them flickering through her mind.

She barely heard Cullen's stammered greeting, barely acknowledged the words that past her lips in reply, only just recognising her own hands as she dragged him into a nearby storeroom. The one thing that stood out clearly was the feel of his lips on hers, and the bliss that followed.

She sighed into his mouth as her eyes slid closed, all but collapsing against his armoured chest, hands resting where his pectorals would be. When she opened her eyes, she immediately blushed at the look of pure need that stared back at her, mixed with equal traces of surprise, mortification and, to her eternal delight, something that looked suspiciously like contentment.

"Um" she began, licking her still-tingling lips "I should really be going…" and before Cullen could respond she fled out of the door, fingers lingering on her lips as they tingled pleasantly, trying to stifle the growing smile that threatened to engulf her face.

* * *

Dylan stormed into the First Enchanter's office like a hurricane, mages and tense Templars parting before him. He flung the door open with a flick of his wrist, magic almost shattering the hinges. Irving merely glanced up from his desk, exasperation clear in his eyes. But this time, Dylan didn't care for his mentor's mood. This time, he had his own problems.

"We need to talk," he hissed, the serpentine tone matching his narrowed eyes, both dripping and loaded with venom and betrayal he couldn't quite mask.

Irving sighed, laid down his quill and stood, hands clasped lightly behind his back. "I assume this is about Jowan being made Tranquil?" the calm tone the old man used only fuelled Dylan's rage.

"I need an explanation, First Enchanter." Dylan managed not to snarl, barely. "tell me something that will not make it seem like you've only been pretending to care about you fellow mages. Because from where I'm standing you're sitting there calm as you please as if you just assigned one of us to oblivion like it's routine!" As the young mage's rant began to build, so did the brightness of the candles, their flames rising ever higher in response to his anger.

However, the First Enchanter hadn't gotten to where he was by ignoring a direct challenge. His spine stiffened, his eyes hardened, and his gained new strength. "Jowan is too weak to pass the Harrowing, he would never survive."

Immediately, Dylan's rage reached new heights at the slight to his friend "Say that again!" The flames glowed almost unbearably bright. "Say it to me who's actually watched him, who knows his worth! Say it, I dare you."

Nothing. Not even a change in those eyes.

"Fade above, you're worse than the Templars! At least they don't know any better!" Dylan bellowed, his voice cracking under the constant strain. "If you'd actually watched him, you would see his talent!" He breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. Then his face contorted into an arrogant sneer, his contempt shining in his eyes. "What next? Are you going to adopt the rest of their mindset? I suppose it would be easier to see us as less than human! Would certainly make it easier to sleep at night when you don't know you've condemned innocent lives to torment, only removed another 'troublesome mage'!"

The goading worked. For all of Irving's patience even he had a limit. Drawing himself up to his full height he pinned his apprentice with an icy glare before slowly drawing all of the heat out of the air. A complex exercise of will that reinforced his status as First Enchanter. Dylan could have fought the claim on the ambient magic but he didn't feel in the mood.

"Enough!" Irving didn't even have to raise his voice to be intimidating. Dylan let his bluster die with his flames. "This will happen. Jowan will be made Tranquil."

Dylan sagged under an invisible weight, his spine drooping under the strain. "I…understand." It was all he would grind out on the matter without doing anything he would regret. Or wouldn't regret at all.

Apparently dismissing the implications of someone who had looked like they were about to assault them in their own office, Irving relit the candles and gestured to the seat opposite his desk. "Now," he mused aloud, reclining in his own high-backed armchair. "Perhaps we should discuss the real reason you came here."

Dylan fell in the indicated seat. He could guess what Irving meant – he'd been more prone to emotional displays since the previous night, and when he wasn't refraining from blowing his top he had to find a distraction in his friends or meditation lest he dwell on the way the Harrowing ended. The relatively mild strain of the confrontation they'd just had was enough to bring out all the residual fatigue from the Harrowing. It made him feel like he could sleep for three days.

His mind could not quiet though, refusing even the notion of silence. Maybe that was why he didn't think mentioning it aloud would make matters any worse.

Irving's reaction to the demon's final warning was quite visible. All conversation to came to a halt for one, tense moment. Then Irving all but pounced on the words, demanding explanation and word-for-word repetition. As he repeated the message, word for word, Dylan watched the blood slowly leech from the First Enchanters face, intrigue replaced with horrified awe.

"Always fear the unknown, child…" he had said at last. Moving to his old chest, he heaved it open and rummaged around it. "Whilst it holds many secrets, some are better left where they lay, lost to the ages." Apparently finding what he sought, he closed the chest and returned to the desk, depositing a large black leather-bound tome on its surface. The cover was adorned with many dragons and seven crowns.

"What…"

"The Dracones Principum Demensum," Irving answered the unstated question. "One of the few Ancient-Era texts to have escaped the purge of the Transfiguration."

Dylan stared at the tome like it was delivered by the Maker's own hand, eyes tracing every contour of the dragons, every decal of the crowns, every tiny detail. Irving quickly flicked through the aged pages, not even reading the words on the ancient parchment, then carefully removed the crimson ribbon from the index and replaced it at the first page. That done, he slid the closed book towards the younger mage.

For a moment, there was only the desire to accept and dive into the secrets of the book… then he carefully pushed the tome back towards the First Enchanter, claimed a more pressing engagement and all but fled the office.

Dylan wiped a hand down his tired face as he left, already doubting the wisdom of his decision. Not only had he betrayed his friends' trust in him, he had also knowingly condemned a perfectly innocent girl to unknown horrors. Their argument was still clear in his mind, branded into his memory. He had all but shouted their plan to the First Enchanter and, knowing Irving like he did, Dylan estimated it wouldn't take the old man long to line the pieces together and unveil their plan, alert the Knight-Commander, and come to detain them.

From there, he ran to the Chantry, where he saw Neria scurrying in with a rod of fire under her arm. From there, they collected Jowan and Lily and hurried on down to the basement, constantly looking over their shoulders for over-inquisitive Templars.

Whilst the others busied themselves unlocking the door, Dylan spotted Duran skulking in the shadows - although how someone could skulk in that much metal was beyond him. When the dwarf saw him looking, he raised his large hand with a thumb raised to the ceiling, his teeth shining in the darkness.

Dylan couldn't help but smile back before descending into the bowels of the tower, leaving the well-lit floors behind.

* * *

They hurried to the doors, their footsteps echoing down the silent halls, ears straining to hear any other noise from the depths. They unlocked the first door easily enough (Lily had palmed the key before leaving the chapel, and what responsible person leaves a key on a lectern anyway?) before scurrying across the corridor towards the phylactery chamber. But as they approached the door Dylan felt a tingling just beneath his skin, and an increasing chill seep into his bones.

That was never a good sign, as the warmth of his magic kept him running hotter than most mages his age. With that sensation gone, that meant his magic had gone with it. In a panic his wild eyes scanned the stones, looking for some cause to his distress. There! Engraved into each stone, enveloping the door and the surrounding masonry, were runes.

Dylan narrowed his eyes, remembering days spent in the library studying such iconography and their meanings. His eyes widened as everything clicked into place. Why would a door need a mundane key when surrounded by mages? When magic was no longer a factor. "Go on!" Jowan urged, still oblivious to the inherent danger "Use the rod. Melt the locks off!" Neria removed the rod from beneath her robes and offered it to Dylan.

"Only fitting really," she jested, shrugging as a smirk weaselled onto her face. A smirk the so-called 'Master of Flames' returned.

That was a title he had earned after sculpting a length of fire into a perfect replica of the sunburst symbol of the Chantry, and forging a sword of flames that spun lazily through the library for a good hour. All that after his typical stunt of sending a stream of flames around the library disguised as a dragon, pushing the other denizens into a near-panic while grinning the whole while.

Already knowing what would happen, Dylan nonetheless raised the rod and tried to ignite the locks. Nothing happened. He tried again for the others' benefit, with the same result.

Which was none.

"What? Why is it not working?" Lily, the poor girl, had no clue about the nullification runes etched into the stones or any knowledge of the fundamentals of magic, so thus was blind to the futile nature of their endeavour. Then the blood drained from her face, from all of their faces really, as the runes ignited, glowing a light blue as they drained any and all ambient magic from the door and walls, stilling the air around them.

The nullification of magic wasn't painful, despite what some mages believed. It simply removed the magic from the air and disrupted spellcasting, not actively draining the mana from the mage.

"Lily, something's wrong, I can't cast anything here." Jowan's blind statement of the obvious brought them all back to the present, his hand motions stunted and useless barring some sparks that never made it closer than two feet of the door and walls.

Lily released a groan of despair. "It's over then, we're finished!" She buried her head in her hands.

The other two scanned the surrounding area, oblivious to the slight panic of their fellows. When Neria's eyes landed on a door at the other end of the passage, she moved so quickly she put striking Cesti to shame. Dylan's mind barely had time to register her hand wrapping around his bicep from she was merrily hauling him behind her, determination shining brightly in her eyes.

"Neria, what are you doing?" So maybe his voice sounded far too relaxed for the situation, but then again there was no law that said he was forbidden to act as though this was the most natural thing in the world. "This door isn't magically sealed, is it?" Was all he got from her as she manually adjusted his hand so the rod was pointing towards the locks of the new door. With a glance over his shoulder at his bemused fellows, he lightly shrugged before channeling a fraction of his power into the rod. It erupted in flames, a thin jet of fire roaring from its tip like water over the Lyrium Falls. With the precision of an artist with his brush, Dylan melted through the bolts sealing the door in place before ending the stream with a flourish of his wrist, letting it slide gently into a pocket of his robes.

Jowan quickly shoved the slightly smoking door open and scurried past, oblivious to the three Sentinels standing guard just beyond the archway. Lily was just as careless, barreling after her love without an ounce of self-control (or self-preservation for that matter), pushing past the others non-too gently. That was when the clicks started. Dylan and Neria shared the look of third wheels everywhere before following after their charges, if only to stop them from getting brutally stabbed, smashed, eviscerated or otherwise mauled in their haste.

They entered just as the first sentinel awoke. The helmet swiveled before a sword was drawn. The animated automaton advanced, the clanking of its armor more than slightly intimidating. Its motion immediately awoke its two brethren, and they too began their advance, shimmering in the light cast by the sconces. Lily produced a dagger from within the folds of her robes, Jowan raised his hands in a casting gesture whilst Neria raised her staff. Dylan, however, was looking intently at the sconces, specifically at the five burning merrily behind them. He twitched a finger, and the flames leapt in response. He felt his signature smirk slide its way onto his face – not quite manic but definitely full of dark promise – as he raised his hands, with his left slightly behind his right, and said quite calmly. "Everyone down."

She knew that smirk. Everyone in the Tower did and agreed he only wore it before he did something any sane person would consider irredeemably irresponsible and stupid, though he seldom held the same opinion himself. She had seen his furtive glances at the surrounding sconces so she knew exactly what he was about to do next. Flinging an arm behind him Dylan began channeling fire into his palms, using not only the flames in the sconces but summoning his own alongside.

The second both palms each held a considerable fireball, he slammed the heels of his hands together, funnelling the flames outwards into a cone of fiery death as it fed off the surrounding sconces, small streams of fire connecting each one to the inferno. The resulting stream engulfed the sentinels, setting their armour ablaze and heating the air around them to almost unbearable temperatures. Neria could feel the sweat sliding down her brow, could see the shimmering haze through the fire, yet she dared not interfere.

Breaking a mage's concentration was risky at the best of times; any crack in mental defence could be an opening for demons to exploit, but this was something else entirely. Dylan had the unique ability to concentrate so deeply, so tightly, on any one task that to try to break it was to invite disaster.

So, as she and the others watched the dancing flames through wide and cautious eyes, they begun to look past their foes and began plotting their route.

* * *

Dylan glanced furtively down the hallways, mindful of the armoured sentries they had woken. They had dodged down many a corridor to avoid the sentinels, not wanting to draw any further attention to themselves. They had stopped here, in a small storage room, to catch their breath and assess the damage taken thus far. Neria was busy mending one of Lily's more serious wounds on her shoulder, whilst Jowan was rummaging through one of the numerous storage crates that littered the area.

None of them had escaped from the sentinels unscathed; Neria's robes had a couple of reasonable tears down the back and across the thighs, Lily's had completely lost the left sleeve, even Jowan's had torn in several places. Of course, Dylan was not exempt either, his own robes bearing multiple scorch marks and tears from his own encounters. Once everyone had rested and had their wounds seen to, they set off again, weapons held low and ready.

They crossed the remaining corridors before Lily screamed as she was grabbed by a sentinel's hand. Everyone sprang into action, Jowan throwing a spirit bolt directly into the enchanted suit's face whilst Dylan flung a stonefist into the thing's knees. Neria froze the armour in place once Lily was free, and they regrouped around her to prepare. Bolts of energy from staves struck nearly every surface of the sentinel's armour, yet it did not fall until a lucky hit from Neria knocked its helmet to the floor.

With what little reprieve they had they swung, as one, to the face the other door. With wary steps they approached, ever careful of what might be inside. Yet when the door opened they could only stand there, amazed. Before them lay the Circle's repository, its vault of wealth and precious artifacts deemed too dangerous for use. Tevinter tablets, Avvar statues, even a few Chasind idols stood in cabinets lined with enchanted glass, whilst other strange contraptions stood on marble tables or raised pedestals.

At the back of the chamber, pressed against the far wall, was a gold-inlayed chest, with runes painstakingly inscribed into its surface. There was also a broken lock. Dylan, being the impulsive and foolhardy person that he was, casually threw open the chest and began to rummage.

"Don't need that" he muttered under his breath as he carefully moved some object out of his way "or that, or that. Ooh, need that! Oh yes, this is a must." This carried on for some time, all the while Neria stood, hands on hips, her head tilted slightly to the side, trying to mimic the motherly glare Wynne had used whenever he had strayed during her lessons. Dylan's rummaging eventually led to him gaining a new staff (he donated the other one to Jowan) a few health poultices, and a set to new robes for Neria to try (she did always look good in green). Then, as they passed what appeared to be a Tevinter statue, something caught their eye.

"There's something odd about that statue" Jowan said, tilting his head to examine the humanoid stone closer, for once not just stating the obvious. There was a palpable aura of venerability around the statue, one that demanded respect, yet did not intimidate to enforce it. Dylan approached the statue, Neria at his shoulder, examining the face of the statue as close as he dared. It was obviously feminine, with a kind of regal grace to its features. "I wonder who you were" he murmured, stepping back to the others, his need to know burning in his eyes. And just when they thought it couldn't get any stranger, the statue spoke.

"Greetings" it said; its voice flowing and eerie, as though speaking from beyond the Veil, the regal lilt still present. They all jumped, surprised beyond measure.

"Maker's breath, did it say something?!" Jowan's shock was understandable, talking statues were uncommon to say the least, and most of them were the dwarven golems.

"I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zinovia, once consort and advisor to Archon Valerius, prophecy my crime. Turned to stone for foretelling the fall of my lord's House." The figure continued, as if they had not spoken.

Dylan and Neria shared an incredulous, if scholarly curiousity-fuelled look of amazement."Archon Valerius?" he questioned, the name unfamiliar to him, despite all his studies into ancient Tevinter.

Jowan perked up, like the student who finally had the answer to a troublesome problem."I'm not sure" he said, screwing his face in an expression to extreme concentration "the Archons were the lords of the Imperium. Hessarian's predecessor perhaps?"

Continuing as though they hadn't spoken, the prophetess continued. "'Forever shall you stand at the threshold of my grand fortress' he said 'and tell your lies to all who pass'." Here her voice turned harsh and vindictive, as though proud of her actions and prophecies. "But my lord found death at the hands of his enemies, and his once-proud fortress crumbled to dust, as I foretold." Dylan felt a chill run up his spine, the amount of venom in those words cutting deeper into his soul than it should have been able to. As Lily tried to drag them away, Dylan spoke, softly so as not to be overheard. "How did they do this to you?" He gently ran his fingers down her stone cheek.

"Weep not for me, child," she replied, voice soft and ageless. "Stone they made me and stone I am, eternal and unfeeling, and I shall endure 'til the Maker returns to light their fires again." Neria turned, having heard the final part of their dialogue, face curious yet wary. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jowan replied with something approaching ridiculous, whilst Lily ridiculed him for it. Yet Dylan dared not leave, not yet, as something in his heart told him their exchange was not over.

Finally, words seemed to appear in his mind, Tevene and ancient, yet somehow fitting. "Conlucent ignes tua longissima nitidum nigrae succedere nocti frigore." he said, voice low so only the old prophet to hear his words. And as he turned, he only just made out her response.

"Et ut vestrum adolebit clarissima , et immarcescibilem, venit diluculum praeparatus."

Smiling, he walked towards the others, as Jowan and Neria moved the bookcase away from the crumbling far wall magically, laying it to rest in the far corner. Neria waved him over to explain the stone mabari. Apparently it acted as a magical lens, increasing the power of any spell cast through them. Removing the rod of fire from its pocket, Dylan stood behind the amplifier statue and, with a nod of Jowan, channeled energy through both the rod and the statue. With a thunderous roar the statue ignited, spitting a fireball the size of a dwarf's head at the crumbling masonry, shattering it completely. This had the downside of waking the repository's sentinels, whom began to quickly march towards them. Sighing, Dylan pocketed the rod and turned to Jowan. "Want to do the honours?" he asked, raising a hand the three rapidly approaching suits of armour.

Grinning, Jowan immediately began firing arcane bolts at the helmets of the sentinels, aiming to the necks so as to knock them off. It took a while, and after leaving many holes in the walls of the phylactery chamber, the final sentinel fell at their feet, its sword clattering to the ground. They looked around, sighed in the relief, then rushed in. As they rummaged through the collection to vials, Dylan wondered where his used to stand, before disregarding that line of thought completely. With a cry of victory, Jowan found his vial, raised it in the air, and threw it on the ground, breaking both the glass and the chains it had bound him with.

"Good!" Neria breathed, leaning against a wall to catch her breath "now let's go!" But as they left the chamber and headed towards the upper levels, Dylan couldn't help feeling that by telling Irving, he had made things a whole lot worse.

* * *

"So, what you said was true, Irving." For any mage, there was no sight more fear-inducing than the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter staring them down, surrounded by other knights of the Order in full armour. This was the sight they had walked into, blundering out of the basement door and straight into the group before them now.

Lily was all but hiding behind Jowan, trying to hide from Greagoir's piercing gaze. Neria was glancing around in worry, large elven eyes scanning the crowd of helms, searching for Cullen no doubt. Dylan was surprised at the swiftness of their response, his eyebrows vanishing into his hairline and his hands rising in a placating gesture.

"Gentlemen" he began in his 'I'm-completely-innocent-please-don't-hurt-me' voice "I assure you, this isn't what it looks like." He got a few snorts and chuckles for his troubles, so it wasn't too bad. Greagoir was unmoved, gaze running across them hard and unyielding.

"An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage, I'm disappointed Lily." Lily gasped as the Knight-Commander advanced, grasping her chin and staring into her eyes. "She seems shocked, yet fully in control of her own mind" he continued, sounding as if he was drawing his report up already in his head "not a thrall of the blood mage then." He strolled back to the group, a disappointed frown on his face. "You were right Irving. This initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished." Then his gaze swung to Dylan and Neria, standing at the side. "And these two, newly mages and already flouting the rules of the Circle!"

Whilst Neria's eyes widened, the only indication of her horror, Jowan immediately leapt to their defence with a cry of "It's not their fault! This was my idea!" Yet Irving put all that to rest. Seeing the worried glint in Neria's eyes, he made a rapid decision to spare them both.

"They are here under my orders, Greagoir. I take full responsibility for their actions." The sudden announcement left the room silent as Greagoir took in this new information; Neria boggled at the First Enchanter, then at Dylan as realisation set in. Jowan's gaze snapped to them, betrayal and grief brewing in his now-watering eyes.

"You-you led us into a trap?" If his glistening eyes hadn't moved them, the pure note of broken pain in his voice might've. Neria was almost in tears herself, her lips drawn as she realized exactly what she had done. Dylan, however, only raised his hand with the ring that Irving had given him. The glyph shone a dull green in the firelight, revealing the tracing spell left on it. "I had no choice Jowan," he said, voice weary and resigned "I'm so sorry."

Anger bloomed across the apprentice's face, rage replacing the pain in his voice "Don't you dare speak to me!" Immediately Neria lost her battle with the tears, though she did not sob. Dylan's face hardened as he dropped his hand, the surrounding flames rising with his anger.

"Enough!" Greagoir's stern command shattered the hostile tension that had been rising in the air. And as the remaining Knights closed in around Lily, they heard Greagoir say "As the Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death. And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows." With his eyes focussed purely on the poor sister-to-be, he declared "Take her to Aeonar." The knights moved in. Lily's face was one of pure terror, and her voice could barely be heard over its quivering.

"The...the mage's prison. No...please no. Not there!" Jowan, in a feat of immense stupidity, cried "No! I won't let you touch her!" and slashed his palm open with a hidden knife. As the blood began to swirl and coalesce around him, everyone backed away, even his friends. Jowan raised his arms high, then flung them forwards, throwing everyone in range to the ground, including the First Enchanter. "By the Maker...blood magic!" Lily summed up the thoughts of everyone still standing who had witnessed that display

"H-how could you! You said you never..." and trailed off as the truth unveiled itself before their eyes. Thus began Jowan's half-hearted attempt to defend himself and convince Lily to go with him, and her slow realisation that she never really knew him. It all ended when her face and tone hardened, becoming sharp as steel, followed by the words "I don't know who you are, blood mage, stay away from me!" And in the face of that rejection, that sudden shift of power, Jowan ran.

* * *

Dylan left Neria with some of the injured Templars as he hunted for Irving. His eyes scanned the room, landing on his mentor's body near where Greagoir had landed. Kneeling down, he shook the First Enchanter gently by the shoulders, trying to hasten his waking. With a coughing splutter, the old man woke, surging to his knees before the fatigue set it, sending him down again.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice still hoarse from lack of air. "Where's Greagoir?" At that exact moment the Knight-Commander himself groaned and rose to his feet. "I knew it, blood magic. But to overcome so many..." Dylan could barely hear them, as four words repeated themselves, over and over, in his head.

"He lied to me…" he breathed, his grief and regret at tricking his friend washed away by that one fact, that one trust-breaking act.

"None of us expected this." Irving, knowing an explosion when he saw one, tried to stem the tide of his anger. "Are you alright Greagoir?"

Greagoir had finally reached the end of his tether, it seemed, for as he whirled on the elder mage, his hand was already clamped around the hilt of his sword.

"As well as be expected given the circumstances! Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down! If you had let me act sooner this would not have happened!" Dylan glanced at Irving's knowing face, whilst trying to force down his anger at the stubborn Templar.

"He just ran out to the door, he can't have gone far."

"Where is the girl?" Greagoir demanded, his temper diverted temporarily. Lily emerged from the shadows, nervous and skittish. After a lengthy scolding from the Knight-Commander, interrupted by Dylan harsh yet quite charming attempt to defend her and lessened by Irving's calming words, she was escorted away to fate unknown. Then his gaze returned to the wayward mage. Neria scuttled over, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Both of you were in a repository full of magics that are locked away for a reason!" Greagoir's anger this time had merit, for although they didn't know why the items of the repository were sealed away, both the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter had to both agree to any new additions. Here Irving turned his ageless eyes to them, cutting through any witty comebacks they could think to make. "Did you take anything important from the repository?" he asked, in a tone that brokered no stalling or back-tracking. Dylan and Neria exchanged a brief glance, followed by a brief headshake, before Neria- the currently most trustworthy of the two- said "We never touched anything." Irving stared at them for a while longer, as though judging them.

"Very well. I believe you" was all he said to seal the matter. Greagoir, on the other hand, would not be denied. "Yet your antics have made a mockery of this Circle! Ah" as his anger began to fade, Greagoir's fatigue became obvious, as did his age "what are we to do with you?" Dylan quite quickly responded with the wit he was known for. "Nothing? We were just doing as we were told." Irving's sigh was part exasperation, part parental amusement, and Neria's eye-roll only added to the familial image they had painted all those years ago. "As I said, they were acting under my orders" For all his faults, the First Enchanter had an extraordinary level of patience. Greagoir, however, was almost his polar opposite, quick to anger and to action.

"And this improves the situation? The phylactery chamber is forbidden to all save you and me!" Irving, however, would only give a cryptic "I had my reasons" as an answer, crossing his arms and standing resolute. "You're not all-knowing, Irving! You don't know how much influence the blood mage might have had. How are we supposed to deal with this?" Then, as if by divine providence, Duncan approached.

* * *

"Knight-Commander, if I may?" Duncan slid into a conversation like he was always meant to be there at that moment. "I'm not only looking for mages to join the king's army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens." He let his gaze linger on the two mages before him, both so young, so full of potential. "Irving spoke highly of these mages, and I would like them both to join the Warden ranks."

Greagoir was almost spluttering with rage, they could almost see the steam emerging from his ears.

"What! You promised him a new Warden?!" Greagoir snapped, as though insulted he wasn't consulted first.

Irving was calm throughout. "They have served the Circle well. They would make excellent Wardens."

Duncan once again faced the two mages, whose eyes were as wide as dinner platters. "We look for dedication in our recruits," he explained, "fighting the darkspawn requires such dedication, often at the expense of all else."

Greagoir, however, was determined to have the last word. "I object! You say they operated under your instructions, but I do not trust them."

Dylan sighed and let his head fall against his arm.

"I must investigate the issue," the Knight-Commander pressed on, looking terribly smug. "and I will not release these mages to the Grey Warden."

In his head, Dylan began chanting Rite of Conscription, Rite of Conscription, Rite of Conscription like a prayer, anything to escape.

Thus he was surprised when Neria spoke before anyone else could. "If the Grey Wardens will have us, we'll gladly go."

Watching the Knight-Commander get shut down by an elf half his size was entertaining to say the least.

"Greagoir, mages are needed," Duncan explained patiently "these mages are needed. Worst things plague this world than blood mages, you know that." Duncan stepped directly behind the pair, enforcing his claim almost. "I take these young mages under my wing and bear all responsibility for their actions."

The Knight-Commander, stubborn as a mule, refused to see reason, and even resorted to the petty "These mages do not deserve a place in the Order!" to try and make his point.

This time, Irving's patience was being truly strained to its limits, as shown by the deep furrows in his brow." Why?" he asked, his tone slipping from curious to accusatory "Do we not reward service? These mages have served the Circle well." Once again, he turned his gaze to his apprentice, his face softening by degrees. "You have an opportunity few even dream of. Do not squander it."

Dylan felt a lump form in his throat at the note of finality in his mentor's voice; like this would be the final piece of advice he would give to anyone.

"So is this it? We are to be Grey Wardens?" Dylan didn't quite sound tentative but wouldn't have cared if he sounded childish; to him he was losing his father all over again, only this time of his own volition. Irving's face softened again, once again resembling the face of the father he never truly knew.

"Yes. Be proud child." He laid both hands on his shoulders, gnarled fingers pressing gently into the cloth of his robes. "You are luckier than you know."

Dylan tried to ignore the cold feeling that stayed behind when Irving let go. Had it been even a few days earlier, he might have even felt tempted to refuse the offer completely just to stay a little longer.

As it was, he turned to Duncan. "Give us some time to pack and say farewell," and with the nod, he turned again back to Irving. "Thank you, First Enchanter. For everything." And with those words, he fled to his chambers to pack what little worldly possessions he had, and to say his goodbyes to the only home he'd ever known.

_..._

_Leave a comment, you know you want to._


	4. Chapter 4- Hand of the Grey

**Welcome, loyal followers! I must apologise for the long wait, writer's block coupled with a tumultuous life section makes updating a little difficult. Anyway, that's done now so updates should be slightly more consistent. So, enjoy reading this latest instalment and please review.**

* * *

Dylan lay near the fire of the Warden camp, his hands resting behind his head as he gazed up at the stars. It had been a long day since leaving Kinloch Hold. They had travelled many leagues before bedding down here, a quarter of a day's walk from the Brecilian Forest.

"There is a clan of Dalish elves in the area." Duncan had explained whilst constructing the communal fire pit "I must speak with their Keeper, she has information we may need in days ahead." After lighting the fire, and enjoying a hearty bowl of druffalo stew, he had bade them all sleep to regain their strength. Yet, as the others slept on, their minds firmly ensconced in the Fade and the machinations therein, Dylan found himself too restless to even consider the notion.

His mind swam with possibilities whilst his magic writhed under his skin, all but crackling where his exposed flesh encountered the light of the waxing crescent moon that rested high over the treeline.

Why visit this particular clan of Dalish, he wondered, what would they have that others didn't? And why go to the Circle first if their destination was Ostagar when the Forest was further away? He was shaken from his musings by a rustling from the tent to his right, and tilted his head just in time to see Duran carefully exit through the canvas flap and make his way to the now-dwindling fire.

"Should young mages not be asleep at this hour?" he asked, sitting down on one of the large logs they had dragged over to act as impromptu benches, clad in only a light undershirt and breeches. Dylan propped himself up on his elbows, raising himself up high enough to comfortably look the dwarf in the eye.

"Have you not heard of the witching hour, my fine-bearded friend?" he asked, raising a hand and conjuring a pale flame at his fingertips "How any mage can sleep through it is beyond me." As he returned his gaze to the stars, banishing the flame he had conjured, he felt his heart warm slightly with the dwarf's throaty chuckle. When no further comments were forthcoming, Duran sighed, stood, and walked to the mage's side.

"Get some rest lad," he said, patting Dylan on the shoulder "something in my bones tells me you'll need it." As the dwarf walked to the edge of the camp to begin his watch, Dylan crawled into the tent he shared with Neria, landing face-first on his bedroll before drifting into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

They rose with the sun, rubbing sleep from their eyes and stiffness from their limbs. After that they struck the tents, rekindling the fire to feast on a hearty breakfast of bread, cheese and smoked sausages before snuffing out the fire pit with earth.

Dylan began the trek feeling better than he had before his Harrowing, striding forward confidently with his staff acting as a walking cane, whistling a tune he remembered his father whistling as he had strolled the docks and markets of Kirkwall. By the time they had reached the forest proper, they had fallen into a loose ring; with Duncan taking point, the dwarves on either side. The mages stood between the dwarves whilst Kalian brought up the rear. They occasionally spoke amongst themselves, speculating about what joining the Grey Wardens entailed, what rituals they would participate in, what said rituals would involve, and so on.

Neria was quieter than usual, he'd noticed, occasionally looking back in the direction of the Tower, even when it had long passed beyond the horizon, an almost wistful expression on her face. He'd asked her about it in camp, away from the others and any prying ears.

"Will we ever go back?" had been her response, whispered through the curtain of her hair, "Will we _want _to go back? Would you want to go 'home' again, after all this?"

Home. A word that many used flippantly, as if it were the most common thing in the world, yet one of the most powerful descriptors of any one place. The saying 'a house does not equal a home' had never held so true as it was just then. It was something to ponder, he decided as they continued to trudge through the gathering undergrowth.

Eventually, the foliage grew so dense Duncan and Kalian drew their blades and began hacking a path through, effectively silencing any conversation in respect of the focus of their guides. Dylan instead turned his eyes to the surrounding scenery, absorbing the vibrant colours of early autumn; the crisp red and gold of freshly fallen leaves that blanketed the ground, the refraction of the sunlight through the boughs of the trees.

To pass the time, he practised some of the spells he had read of before his departure from the Circle. The most intriguing, to him at least, was a spell that allowed the caster to detect the presence of any living creature around them. Dylan had gained a vested interest in such a ability after multiple run-ins with unexpected persons after what some considered unhealthily long sessions in the library and laboratories.

He whispered the ancient words, focussing solely on his surroundings and what his eyes could see. He felt more than saw the spell take effect, felt a slight shift in the muscles of his eyes.

What he saw took his breath away.

The world seemed to _glow_. Bright golden and emerald hues everywhere he looked, once again paying credence to the variety of life. He turned to glance at his companions. Sure enough, all of them shone as well, as if from some inner light.

Then Dylan noticed something odd. Just beyond the path, deeper into the woods he saw a motionless form, half-covered by fallen leaves. The thing that truly grabbed his attention though, was the slight sickly aura that surrounded it. Not enough to signify illness, but just enough to be noticeable.

"Duncan!" he called over his shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on the form amidst the undergrowth, "You may want to see this!" And as the others rapidly gathered around he stepped off the path and into the wild, gently brushing aside branches for the others to pass. As soon as the form became visible, it revealed itself to be a lone elf, clad in strange leathers, face-down in the loam.

With a gentle gust of magic, the leaves and debris were brushed aside and Dylan knelt down to brush golden hair behind a tapered ear, getting a closer look at this elf's affliction. What he saw in the place of bare flesh had his gorge rising rapidly. Ashen skin; with putrid purple-black veins criss-crossing a goodly portion of the elf's face- from the right temple across the nose and down below the neckline- appearing almost lifeless. If the gasps and muffled groans behind him were any indication, the others had noticed as well. He gently handed the poor elf over to Neria- healing had always been her domain, never his, her gentle nature proved more attractive to the more benevolent spirits required for such feats- before standing up to lean against a nearby tree.

Dylan stepped away from the main group, his mind swirling like a summer storm. How had the elf got here? What had caused his strange affliction? More importantly, was that same cause still around? He glanced at the path their patient had obviously made, taking note of the drag marks and the dents fingers had created in the tightly-packed earth, and a sickening realisation overcame him.

"He dragged himself here" he noted, trying to hide the lack of air in his lungs, "even badly wounded." He found it hard to imagine the amount of pain the Dalish- for after seeing the elf's face, he had no doubt to his origins- must have been in, dragging himself with nothing but his arms and pure stubbornness. The only reason he stopped was most likely exhaustion, all energy spent. Dylan gained a sudden and profound respect for such a person, and watched as Neria wove an intricate web of regenerative spells and enchantments over her patient, her eyes half-closed, muttering the words under her breath. As the golden light from her hands reached the infected flesh, the purple border began to recede. Duncan looked up at Dylan's piece of detective work, nodding as he examined the evidence.

"Indeed. And considering this is no ordinary illness; makes his actions even more miraculous," Having piqued the interest of the entire party, if the turning of even Kalian's head was any indication, he gestured to the elf's face and continued, "I have only seen such sickness once before, and all victims were Wardens. This is no mere battle wound. I fear he is Tainted, or in the process of becoming so."

The silence was deafening.

To be tainted was to be cursed to a slow, agonising death as your body turned against you. Failing that, tainted ones often fled to the Deep Roads in a mad attempt to find their darkspawn masters, and became ghouls in those blighted tunnels. The greatest mercy such people could be granted was a quick death, for there was no cure for such sickness. Suddenly the weight of their position began to press down upon them, like they were in the base of the sand-glass of this elf's life and the grains had begun to fall.

Duran acted with new-found urgency, whisking the elf into his arms and over his shoulders. Glancing behind him he once again set off deeper into the forest, the others hot on his heels, the hands of time resting heavily upon their shoulders.

As he ran; Dylan saw the elf's eyelids flutter before falling shut again, a groan of pain his only sound. His thoughts cleared as, dodging low hanging branches and the odd tree, he began to calculate the odds of the elf surviving the trip.

After a minute of thinking he swore under his breath and sped up, urging the others faster, fervently praying the Dalish were in a hospitable mood to see strangers with one of their own.

* * *

Dylan leant against one of the caravans- or aravels, and the Dalish called them- near the edge of the camp, his pack at his feet, the Dracones Principum Demensum in his hand. He had started reading soon after they had delivered their charge to the clan's waiting arms, having been greeted with suspicion which quickly turned to horrified surprise as the hunter's face became visible.

They had directed them towards the aravel Dylan now leant against, calling for their Keeper as they swiftly retrieved their hunter from Duncan's arms. An elderly woman emerged, took one glance at the assembled party, and ushered them inside. After laying the hunter down on a nearby bed, she gently shooed all but Neria from the area, who insisted she could help. For the most part the clan had been quite accommodating to their unexpected guests, yet it was impossible not to notice the wary and sometimes hostile looks thrown their way.

To avoid any confrontations Dylan had removed himself from the group, choosing instead to linger near the only constant he still had. His eyes scanned the weathered and aged pages before him, drinking in every detail; every letter of every word branding itself into his mind. Secrets lost to the ages or buried under centuries of religious dogma, rituals of the Old Gods, once forgotten, now his to know.

So engrossed was he that he barely noticed the Keeper exiting the aravel until he felt the wood shake slightly. He looked up to see the elder approaching him, all her long years seeming to weigh heavily on her slim shoulders. He hastily placed his book down on a wooden strut, rising to his feet as though the Keeper would keel over in even the slightest breeze.

"Keeper," he intoned, clapping a fist over his breast and bowing his head, unsure of any traditional Dalish greetings. Marethari inclined her head in regal greeting, striding gracefully to his side.

"I am told that it is you we have to thank for finding Theron?" she asked, her lilting voice holding an accent he could not place, "Let me have a look at you, child." Abidingly, Dylan sat down again so Marethari could grasp his chin. She titled his head from side to side, eyes scanning every inch of skin for signs only she could see. When she had seen all she needed in his flesh, she turned her attention to his eyes.

It was chilling, he quickly decided, for someone to look into your eyes and lay your soul bare. For when his eyes met the Keeper's ancient gaze, his barriers were brushed aside, and everything his was she had spread out to see. She didn't merely look at him, she looked through him. Through the wit; past the lies and subterfuge, down into the roaring fire of his heart. How long they stayed there, he could not say. Marethari blinked, a gentle smile forming on her weathered face.

"You have an old soul, human." was all she said, softly, on what she had seen, "Treasure it, wherever life takes you." Reaching down, she grasped his right hand in hers, bringing it up and pressing them against his heart. "And remember 'the darkest hour may be just before the dawn, but even the smallest fire can stave off the longest shadows.' An adage of your people, I believe." And with that she left, leaving the young warden-to-be to his thoughts. He sat there, with his arms resting on his thighs, his mind awhirl.

And there he sat until Theron awoke and the wardens were summoned.

* * *

Their newest addition had joined them under some duress, having originally refused to leave his clan until told it was the only way he would survive. Dylan envied the Dalish hunter, envied how much his clan cared for him and how grieved they were to see him go. And now, trudging through the forest, he could still clearly remember watching as the hunter bade farewell to his people.

All were sad and almost grieving; with expressions similar to men knowing they just sent their friends to an early grave. And as they had stood there, against the trees at the edge of the camp, Dylan had shuddered at the lyrics of the dirge the elves sang. They were filled with sorrow, covered with unfulfilled promise, and dripping with grief. No one who heard those mournful words had remained unmoved.

They had watched as the elf had embraced his clan one last time- not one or two members, the entire clan had turned up- before shouldering his pack, complete with a new longbow and quiver of arrows, and setting forth. He had been silent ever since, at the rear of the group, his pine-green eyes flickering between each and every member of the group which his left hand clasped a bone amulet like a lifeline. When the group made camp that night, Theron simply laid his bedroll away from the others before retrieving his portion of stew and retreating to the edge of the camp.

Dylan frowned as he watched the elf, critical eyes observing every motion. It was obvious the hunter was nervous about his new environs, which was understandable considering the circumstances and his movements suggested such, twitchy and bird-like. Duncan had tried talking to him, but the elf had remained tight-lipped and stubbornly silent.

Dylan decided he would approach the elf in the morn, once his mind had begun to process the events of the day. He could imagine all too well the horror that must fill the young hunter's thoughts, the news of some unseen enemy destroying you from the inside would be blood-chilling to even the most seasoned warrior. But for now, he need not worry; all would be resolved come the morning. Nodding decisively he strolled to his bedroll and enveloped himself in the furs. He was still contemplating the issue as he drifted off into slumber.

* * *

He drifted in the Fade, drawn by the ever shifting threads of the dreamers therein. He had always felt more alert in the Fade, as if the perspectives of the material no longer affected him.

He quickly created doors between the realms of dreamers; some safely ensconced in warm beds, dreaming of better days, whilst others shivered under patchwork blankets, hoping the chill was just the weather, not the onset of something worse. He tried to ignore them; losing concentration in the depths of the Fade was to invite possession, and worse besides.

Sometimes Dylan wondered if maybe demons weren't the darkest things to be found in the Fade.

He closed his eyes and listened as he roamed, waiting to hear the sound he had hunted every night. The rumbling roar that rattled all the bones in his body, that shook the very ground beneath his feet.

That resonated in his heart. And so, as the winds of the Fade gripped him, he listened, straining his senses to hear. There. Deep in the background noise, beneath the ebb and flow hum of the Fade, he heard it. If he was being completely honest, he more felt it than heard it, felt the familiar tremor crawl across his frame and resonate in the very marrow of his bones. And so, instead to fleeing what most would see as a dangerous encounter at best, fatal at worst, he charged after the source of the noise, giving no heed to his own well-being.

He opened gateway after gateway, getting progressively closer to the source of the noise. Once there, he stumbled to a halt and paused to examine his surroundings. He had landed before the entrance of a temple of sorts: a large cave set into the side of mountain, with runes carved into the walls, encircling the entire mouth and beyond. Bracing himself, he began to stumble towards the cave, his only visible path of exploration. As he passed the threshold, the surrounding runes burst into life, thrumming a deep and vibrant cherry-red. Their touch was like a cooling balm across inflamed flesh, and he relaxed as they relieved pains he had yet to notice.

Now that his mind was clear, Dylan began to take stock of his surroundings. He was in the mouth of a large central chamber, with at least three tunnels leading off to the sides. In the chamber itself there was a small spring, which trickled into a small stream that flowed into one of the adjoining chambers. And resting in a fire-pit atop a pedestal of white marble, standing smack-dab in the centre of the chamber, was a great flame.

The fire burned away merrily, filling the cavern with its warmth and light whilst banishing all the shadows from all but the darkest corners. The flame had an almost hypnotic quality, Dylan found it incredibly difficult to look away, yet startlingly easy to slide his gaze back to it. Whilst staring into the fire, a voice seemed to echo for the stone walls.

"Ask yourself, young one," it said, low and gravelly like the movement of hot coals "what is fire? Can you define it? Classify it, and all it represents?" Dylan was confused at the line of questioning, glancing around to try and identify the source of the voice. Define fire? Fire was simply the result of specific objects reacting to an excess of heat. Everyone knew that, surely?

The voice chuckled; seeming to move from Dylan's left to his right, having apparently heard his thoughts. "Ah, a scholar are we? Interesting. Pray tell, young scholar, what does the flame symbolise? Both now and in ages past?"

This Dylan could do, having studied to sate a burning adolescent curiosity. The flame; now one of the sigils of the Andrastian Chantry symbolising the Maker's light and sphere of influence, once symbolised hope and life. It had also symbolised rage and hatred, alongside passion and many other emotions. However, the one fact everyone understood was that fire could be used to symbolise change, most often violent and sudden.

The flames seemed to flicker in some kind of recognition of his presented facts, and the voice spoke again. "Very good little magus. There may be hope for you yet." A great rumbling shook the chamber, and one of the walls was reduced to rubble.

"Accept this gift as a token of my esteem." The voice had changed, becoming more regal and authoritarian, as a small ember floated away from the main fire and arced across the room. Dylan held out his hand as the ember approached and watched, slightly wary, as it landed in the centre of his palm. The pain he expected never appeared, which was surprising considering the temperature of the object he now held.

He continued to watch as the ember began to merge with the flesh of his hand, a strange warmth creeping up his arm. He felt his eyes beginning to dip as the warmth extended across his body, his head sagging under sudden fatigue.

"Remember, little magus" this voice, source still unclear, sounded oddly amused as Dylan began to drift "I will be watching."

And Dylan knew no more of brilliant flames and vast halls as he rose to the waking world.


End file.
